THE   MANUSCRIPT. 


"  Like  April  morning  clouds  that  pass, 
With  varying  shadow  o'er  the  grass, 
And  imitate  on  field  and  furrow, 
Life's  chequered  scene  of  joy  and  sorrow; 
Thus  various  my  romantic  theme 
Flits,  winds,  and  sinks,  a  morning  dream.'' 


VOL.  I. 


ArconD  EBitton. 


NEW-YORK : 

G.  &  C.  CARVILL,  AND  ELAM  BLISS. 

1828. 


Southern  District  of  New*York,  ss. 

BE  IT  REMEMBERED,  that  onf.be  second  day  of  January,  A.  D.  182fc, 
and  in  the  fifty-second  year  of  the  Independence  of  the  United  States  of  Ame- 
rica, Elam  Bliss,  of  the  said  District,  hath  deposited  in  this  Office  the  title 
of  a  Book,  the  right  whereof  he  cla&a  as  proprietor,  in  the  words  following; 
to  wit: 

"  The  Manuscript." 

In  'conformity  to  the  Act  of  the  Congress  of  the  United  States,  entitled, 
"  An  Act  for  the  encouragement  of  Learning,  by  securing  the  Copies  of  Maps, 
Charts,  and  Books,  to  the  Authors  and  Proprietors  of  such  Copies,  during  the 
times  therein  mentioned  :"  and  also  to  an  Act,  entitled,  "An  Act  supplement- 
ary to  an  Act,  entitled,  "  An  Act  for  the  encouragement  of  Learning,  by  se- 
curing the  copies  of  Maps,  Charts,  and  Books,  to  the  authors  and  proprietors 
of  such  copies  during  the  times  therein  mentioned  ;  and  extending  the  benefits 
thereof  to  the  arts  of  designing,  engraving,  and  etching  historical  and  other 
prints." 

FRED.  J.  BETTS, 
Clerk  of  the  Southern  District  of  New-York. 


THE   MANUSCRIPT 


IS   RESPECTFULLY  DEDICATED 


TO   THE    LIBERAL   AMERICAN, 


DISPOSED   TO   PATRONISE 


THE    EFFORTS   OF   NATIVE    LITERATURE, 


TEE  AUTHOR. 


2072816 


CONTENTS, 


Vage 

The  Plan,  -       9 

The  Sagacious  Dog,       -  M 

The  Visit,  28 
Mary  Linden, 

Highland  Banditti,  59 

The  Country  Clergyman,                           fc  66 

Trenton  Falls,   -  73 

The  Money  Dreamer,     •  86 

Tales  of  The  Prison,  97 

The  Illustrious  Dead,     -  129 

Nahant,  or  The  Indian's  Cave,  -  139 

The  Legend  of  Schooley  Mountain,  -      162 

General  Washington's  Escape,   -  -  177 

American  Literature,      -  -      186 


THE   PLAN. 


This  folio  of  four  pages,  happy  work  ! 

What  is  it  but  a  map  of  busy  life, 

Its  fluctuations,  and  its  vast  concerns  ? — COWPEH. 


IN  trying  to  interest  the  community,  enlight- 
ened by  the  wisdom  of  so  many  minds,  and 
amused  by  such  innumerable  sources  of  enjoy- 
ment, it  is  difficult  to  avoid  the  extremes  of  over- 
doing the  matter,  through  anxiety,  on  the  one 
hand  ;  or  degenerating  into  common-place,  from 
the  fear  of  being  thought  too  conceited,  on  the 
other.  Attributing  the  conduct  of  every  writer 
to  avarice  and  vanity,  rather  than  a  desire  of 
promoting  the  public  good,  the  repulsive  crowd 
quickly  lower  the  pretensions  of  every  literary 
hero,  which  not  only  chastises  him  for  being 
wiser  than  themselves,  but  tends  to  raise  them 
higher  in  the  opposite  scale  of  discernment  and 
learning.  But,  unkind  as  the  world  is,  there  are 
always  to  be  found  souls  of  a  noble  and  pa- 
tronising nature,  who  have  minds  to  comprehend, 

No.  I.— a 


and  hearts  to  appreciate  the  motives  of  the 
honest  writer,  who  had  rather  feel  themselves  the 
severest  lash  of  criticism,  than  inflict  the  slightest 
wound  on  those  who  professedly  write  for  their 
amusement.  They  feel  that  is  a  species  of  in- 
gratitude of  the  blackest  dye :  an  ingratitude  en- 
gendered by  envy,  fostered  by  pride,  and  which, 
instead  of  deriving  nourishment  from  the  food 
that  is  offered  it,  changes  it  into  "  the  gall  of  bit- 
terness," and  the  wormwood  of  calumny, — con- 
verts the  garden  of  nature  into  a  dreary  desert, 
and  the  smiles  of  good  humour  into  the  wither- 
ing frowns  of  hatred.  The  liberal,  enlightened 
mind  not  only  acts  from  the  spontaneous  impulse 
of  its  own  nature,  but  from  the  sacred  considera- 
tions of  duty  exciting  it  to  the  promotion  of  Ge- 
nius and  Learning.  It  has  in  view  the  cultivation 
of  native  intellect,  by  fanning  the  sparks  of  genius 
till  they  burst  into  a  flame — the  dissemination  of 
sound  taste,  literature,  and  science,  through  every 
part  of  the  globe — the  extension  of  liberality  and 
kind  feeling  over  the  cold  waste  of  selfishness, 
prejudice,  and  pride,  and  the  progression  of  the 
human  soul  from  improvement  to  improvement, 
until  vunshackled  from  the  chains  of  mortality, 
it  basks  in  the  meridian  sunshine  of  celestial 


11 

But  while  it  is  our  pride  to  acknowledge  the 
existence  of  such  minds,  it  is  to  be  regretted  that 
literary  neglect  is  often  imputable  to  the  very 
writers  themselves.  Like  the  aurelian  insect, 
numbers  weave  themselves  so  closely  in  a  web 
of  their  own  spinning,  that  they  neither  enjoy 
the  light,  nor  allow  themselves  to  be  compre- 
hended by  others.  Many  fill  their  subjects  so 
profusely  with  ornaments,  that  the  reader  is  at  a 
loss  which  the  author  would  have  him  most  ad- 
mire ;  and  like  Tarpeia,  overwhelmed  by  the 
bracelets  of  the  Sabines,  they  perish  alone 
through  their  own  weight  of  tinsel.  On  the 
other  hand,  we  are  directed  to  works  of  biogra- 
phy, history,  and  science;  but  there  again,  in- 
stead of  meeting  with  a  pleasing  variety ;  or,  to 
speak  figuratively,  instead  of  beholding  the  lively 
Corinthian,  mingled  with  the  various  depart- 
ments of  the  Composite  order,  we  either  con- 
template the  Ionic,  or  Doric,  or  we  are  com- 
pelled to  plod  along  in  the  dull,  solemn  pomp  of 
the  Gothic  style  alone.  Now  a  truce  upon  such 
taste  !  The  human  mind,  to  bo  kept  constantly 
awake,  requires  a  variety  of  stimulants  adapted 
to  its  constitutional  changes,  as  what  is  food  at 
one  time,  becomes  at  another,  nauseating  poison. 
Who  would  recommend  to  the  gay  reader  the 


12 

dry  detail  of  public  reports,  or  call  the  serious  to 
dwell  upon  the  risible  adventures  of  Don  Quix- 
otte  or  Sancho  Panza?  It  therefore  becomes 
necessary  to  mingle  fancy  with  instruction,  and 
gayety  with  rational  severity.  The  tastes  of  all 
must  be  consulted,  or  the  public  attention  will 
flag,  and  the  sanguine  author,  instead  of  finding 
his  productions  on  the  shelves  of  the  trade,  will 
be  compelled  to  send  his  friends  to  the  counter 
of  the  confectioner  or  the  grocer  to  collect  such 
scanty  remains  as  the  moderation  of  business 
has  spared. 

44  A  general  love  of  variety,  however,  which  is 
not  indulged  as  a  beneficial  means  of  improve- 
ment, resembles  the  rose  of  Florida,  the  bird  of 
Paradise,  or  the  cypress  of  Greece.  The  first, 
the  most  beautiful  of  flowers,  emitting  no  fra- 
grance ;  the  second,  the  most  beautiful  of  birds, 
eliciting  no  song ;  the  third,  the  finest  of  trees, 
yielding  no  fruit.  It  has  not  been  inaptly  called 
a  species  of  '  adultery.*  It  characterizes  a  weak 
and  superficial  mind,  ill  qualifies  it  for  honour- 
able exertion,  and  peculiarly  unfits  its  possessor 
for  selecting  subjects  to  exercise  his  fancy ;  or 
from  furnishing  correct  and  sound  materials  to 
form  and  elevate  the  understanding." 


16 

How  many  also  are  travelling  over  subjects 
which  millions  before  them  have  ransacked,  so 
that  not  a  thought  is  perceptible,  but  what  is 
found  in  richer  hives  than  theirs,  enkindled  by  a 
livelier  vein  of  imagination,  enlightened  by  a 
sounder  information,  and  enriched  by  a  fresh 
glow  of  originality.  Not  that  it  is  possible  to 
strike  out  so  new  a  path,  or  give  birth  to  ideas 
to  which  others  have  been  strangers.  The  re- 
flections we  make,  thousands  have  indulged  be- 
fore us ;  and,  excepting  the  novel  deductions 
from  the  experiments  of  science,  it  may  be  safely 
asserted,  with  the  wise  man  of  Scripture, — 
"  There  is  nothing  new  under  the  sun."  Origi- 
nality may  exist  in  the  novelty  of  the  method, 
the  peculiarity  of  the  style,  the  combination  of 
the  sentiments,  or  the  rich  and  varied  colouring 
to  illustrate  some  well-known  truth.  Neither 
imitating  the  precision  of  Bacon,  the  pedantry  of 
Burton,  the  rotundity  of  Johnson,  the  playfulness 
of  Swift,  or  the  romanticity  of  Irving ;  the  writer 
may  use  his  own  thoughts,  method,  and  language, 
and  if  resorting  at  all  to  the  sentiments  of  others, 
must  make  the  same  use  of  them  ae  the  bee  of 
the  flower,  by  extracting  their  nectar,  and  pre- 
paring it  in  his  own  way  for  the  use  and  enjoy- 
ment of  the  public.  «  Those,  on  the  contrary 


who  pretend  to  give  us  nothing  but  the  fruit  oi 
their  own  growth,  soon  fail,  like  rivulets  which 
dry  up  in  summer.  Far  different  are  those  which 
receive,  in  their  course,  the  tribute  of  a  hundred 
and  a  hundred  rivers,  and  which,  even  in  the 
dog-days,  carry  mighty  waters  triumphantly  to 
the  ocean." 

The  Novelists  might  be  mentioned  as  distin- 
guished for  the  highest  literary  attainments,  but 
too  often  polluting  their  pages  with  fashionable 
oaths,  profane  appeals,  volatile  tattle,  and  sensual 
representations.  We  mean  simply  to  censure 
their  abuses ;  and  as  they  will  prevail  in  despite 
of  all  our  scolding,  we  wish  to  behold  them  the 
vehicles  of  sound  taste,  innocent  gayety,  and 
useful  instruction.  The  visible  improvement  in 
this  department  of  literature  has  doubtless  con- 
tributed to  its  increasing  demand ;  and  no  reason 
can  be  assigned  why,  if  purged  from  its  dross, 
Fiction  should  not  be  used  as  the  instrument  of 
enlightening  and  reforming  mankind.  Why 
should  not  the  fancy  contribute  as  liberal  a  mite 
to  the  advancement  of  sound  morals  as  the  funds 
of  the  understanding,  or  the  sensibilities  of  the 
heart  ?  Is  it  not  important  to  render  the  richest 
of  our  faculties  the  medium  of  instruction,  that 


15 

the  mind  may  relish  the  higher  branches  of  in- 
telligence, and  practise  the  duties  persuasively 
recommended  ? 

The  Periodicals  and  Reviews  of  the  day  have 
attained  an  eminence  and  popularity  superior  to 
any  antecedent  period,  and  distinguish  the  pre- 
sent age  as  discriminating  and  refined,  as  desirous 
of  cherishing  the  efforts  of  native  genius.  Did 
they  altogether  breathe  a  catholic  spirit,  disposed 
to  smile  upon  the  talented  productions  of  every 
sect  and  party;  were  malicious  and  time-serving 
remarks  altogether  excluded,  and  one  sole  per- 
severing effort  used  to  advance  the  literary,  moral, 
and  religious  interests  of  the  community ;  they 
would  rank  the  highest,  next  to  Christian  institu- 
tions, in  meliorating  the  condition  of  society, 
and  diffusing  that  public  and  social  felicity  so 
earnestly  coveted  by  every  virtuous  mind. 

Will  it  then  be  deemed  presumptuous,  if,  shel- 
tered by  the  example  of  loftier  names  in  litera- 
ture, we  add  our  mite  in  the  diffusion  of  its  spirit, 
and  if  unable  to  edify  by  the  maxims  of  wisdom, 
we  may,  at  least,  amuse  by  the  exposure  of  folly  ? 
Our  object  is  amusement,  combined  with  the  inv 


It) 


proveinent  ot'  the  understanding.  To  censure 
vice,  by  applying  the  rod  of  satire,  and  to  reform 
the  follies  and  errors  of  the  age ; — to  occasion- 
ally glance  at  Biography,  Criticism,  and  History ; 
— to  furnish  amusing  tales  for  the  closet,  either 
facetious  or  melancholy,  just  in  the  frame  of 
mind  we  happen  to  indulge,  and  then  again  di- 
verge into  some  didactic  essay,  designed  only  to 
engage  the  attention  of  the  serious ; — to  write 
just  as  we  please,  what  we  please,  and  when  we 
please,  provided  we  aim  to  please  those  who 
favour  us  with  their  attention ; — to  provide,  in 
short,  a  series  of  essays  to  amuse  an  idle  hour, 
and  promote  the  best  interests  of  literature  and 
morality,  are  the  objects  we  propose ;  and  if  we 
fail,  it  must  be  imputed  to  the  good  natured  blun- 
der of  unintentional  design.  Humble  as  we  are, 
we  will  not  be  awed  by  the  pedantic  pomp  of  de- 
pressing superiority,  or  shrink  from  the  aspiring 
attempts  of  more  successful  and  celebrated 
writers.  Sincerity  is  our  armour ;  improvement 
our  watch-word ;  the  public  confidence  our  sup- 
port ;  and  may  we  not  reasonably  hope,  that  the 
favour  and  patronage  we  covet,  may  shield  us  as 
the  crown  of  our  reward  ? 


THE    SAGACIOUS   DOG. 


The  world,  I  cried, 

>Shall  hear  of  this  thy  deed  : — 

My  dog  shall  mortify  the  pride 
Of  man's  superior  breed. 

Cow  J'ER 


THE  fidelity  of  the  canine  race  has  been  only 
equalled  by  their  sagacity.  Many  cases  have 
been  recorded  of  the  most  extraordinary  feats 
which  they  have  performed,  and  which,  if  not 
ascribable  to  the  keenness  of  their  physical  or- 
gans, must  surely  originate  from  intellectual 
faculties.  They  have  been,  however,  extremely 
indebted  to  the  regimen  of  laborious  training, 
which  enables  them,  after  much  practice,  to  un- 
derstand peculiar  signs,  drilled  into  them  by  their 
instructers ;  and  whose  results,  from  the  difficulty 
of  detection  by  those  who  witness  them,  are  fre- 
quently regarded  as  the  most  unaccountable 
prodigies.  Whether  it  is  from  their  uncommon 
power  of  scent,  or  their  constant  habit  of  watch- 
ing the  actions  of  their  master,  they  cer- 

No.  I.—3 


18 

tainly  possess  the  faculty  of  finding  his  hidden  or 
lost  property;  and  much  amusement  has  been 
derived  from  the  persevering  attempts  of  these 
animals  in  discovering  the  object  of  their  search. 
Among  the  many  anecdotes  extant  on  this  in- 
stinctive property  of  dogs,  I  will  relate  one  from 
the  recollections  of  a  friend,  who  seriously  as- 
sured me  that  the  circumstances  were  correct. 

Two  gentlemen  were  travelling  on  horseback 
in  the  western  part  of  Pennsylvania,  accom- 
panied by  a  shaggy,  nimble-footed  pointer,  whose 
vision  and  movements  were  governed  by  those  of 
the  horses ;  and  then  he  never  kept  out  of  the 
sight  or  whistle  of  his  master,  whom  he  was 
sure  to  notify  by  his  bark  of  approaching  pas- 
sengers, the  starting  of  a  flock  of  birds,  or  any 
of  those  trivial  incidents  which  keep  alive  atten- 
tion on  the  road.  The  sprightliness  and  vigilance 
of  the  dog  engrossed  the  conversation  on  the 
instinct  of  animals ;  and  after  they  had  discussed 
the  question  as  learnedly  as  the  inconvenience  of 
jolting  would  allow,  one  of  the  friends  asserted, 
that,  "whether  it  was  instinct  or  reason,  his 
Romeo  could  find  any  article  which  he  had  lost ;" 
and  he  enumerated  a  catalogue  of  valuables 


19 

which  the  sagacity  of  his  favourite  had  brought 
to  light.  His  bold  declaration  could  not  but  arouse 
the  curiosity  of  the  other,  who  had  obstinately 
maintained  "the  instinctive"  side  of  the  ques- 
tion, as  he  considered  dogs  a  sort  of  hairy,  four- 
footed  machines,  operated  upon  as  card  images, 
by  the  force  of  the  power  that  moves  them. 
"  I'll  stake  you  a  twenty  dollar  bill,"  uttered  he. 
defyingly, "  that  Romeo  does  no  such  thing ;  and 
if  I  lose,  I'll  treat  you,  and  the  dog  besides,  to  the 
best  supper  the  inn  can  afford."  A  hearty  laugh 
from  his  companion,  and  a  shrill  whistle,  which 
brought  the  panting  pointer  to  his  side,  were  the 
prelude  to  the  acceptance  of  the  challenge.  "  I 
verily  believe,"  said  he, "  that  Romeo  knows,  he  is 
the  topic  of  conversation !  Come  here,  my  old  dog ! 
You  can  find  master's  property,  can't  you,  Ro- 
meo?" The  dog  flew  jumping  and  barking 
round  the  horses — then  he  would  spring  to  meet 
his  master's  hand  as  if  intending  to  kiss  it — 
again  he  would  run  up  and  down  the  road,  and 
after  rummaging  and  smelling  behind  every  rock 
and  stone,  he  would  return  to  his  owner  and 
whine  expressively  in  his  face,  as  if  he  was  de- 
sirous of  saying, "  you  perceive  that  I  am  always 
watching  over  your  interests." 


It  was  agreed  upon,  that  Romeo  and  his  master 
should  proceed  to  the  inn,  which  was  about  four 
miles  distant ;  and  that  the  other  should  remain 
behind,  to  conceal,  wherever  he  pleased,  a  dollar 
of  his  friend's  own  marking ;  and  he  accordingly 
waited  full  ten  minutes  after  the  dog  was  out  of 
sight  before  he  made  arrangements  for  the  se- 
cretion of  his  coin.  "  Where  shall  I  hide  it  ?" 
thought  he—"  To  drop  it  upon  the  ground,  or 
expose  it  any  where  in  open  sight,  would  not 
escape  the  penetrating  eye  of  the  animal ;  and 
to  bury  it  in  the  ground,  or  throw  it  in  the  water, 
would  be  unfair,  and  render  the  performance  of 
the  undertaking  impossible."  Pondering  a  mo- 
ment, he  hid  it  beneath  a  huge  stone,  which  he 
was  hardly  able  to  raise ;  and  remounting  his 
horse,  rejoined  his  companion  who  had  been 
some  time  before  him  at  the  hotel.  "  Well,  sir," 
exclaimed  he,  "  have  you  made  sure  of  my  dol- 
lar ?  Safe  enough,  I  warrant,  for  you  have  not 
staid  so  confounded  long  for  nothing;  it  is  lodged, 
no  doubt,  within  an  enchanted  hole,  or  guard- 
ed in  some  fairy  castle  by  a  dragon  more  terrible 
than  that  of  the  Hesperides :  I  almost  tremble 
for  my  pocket,  and  the  beef-steak  supper  of 
the  dog !  But  harkee.  Romeo,  get  you  back 


21 

upon  the  road,  and  find  my  silver  dollar  which  I 
have  lost !"  The  animal  eyed  his  master  wist- 
fully for  an  instant,  but  soon  changed  his  pos- 
ture for  the  attitude  of  searching,  and  began  to 
frisk  along,  and  scent  every  corner  of  the  road, 
accompanying  every  change  of  direction  by  a 
half-suppressed  bark  of  joy.  The  final  word 
"  away"  urged  Romeo  completely  out  of  view ; 
and  the  friends  proposed,  after  dinner,  amusing 
themselves  with  shooting  a  few  woodcock  and 
snipe,  until  a  reasonable  time  had  elapsed  for  the 
arrival  of  their  scout.  After  vainly  searching 
the  meadows  and  woods,  for  at  least  two  hours, 
they  began  to  think  of  returning  to  the  inn. 
Romeo's  master  was  positive  of  meeting  him 
there  in  the  possession  of  his  silver  dollar. — He 
whistled  for  him,  assured  that  he  was  probably 
scenting  their  track ;  and  even  hazarded  a  consi- 
derable wager  at  finding  him  at  the  hotel  with 
the  landlord.  "  Well,  well,"  returned  the  chal- 
lenger, "  If  he  returns  before  morning  with  the 
money,  I  promise  to  pay  all  the  expenses  of  the 
day,  in  addition  to  the  wager  I  have  staked ;  but 
if  he  comes  back  without  it,  you  know  the  bank 
whence  the  host  and  myself  are  to  draw  our 
funds  !"  "  Done !"  exclaimed  the  other,  laugh- 


22 

ing,  for  I  feel  as  certain  of  his  return  with  the 
dollar,  as  if  I  heard  his  bark,  and  the  rolling  of 
the  money."  To  his  disappointment,  however, 
the  dog  was  not  there — no  trace  of  him  was 
discernible  upon  the  road ;  and  no  travellers,  who 
had  arrived  from  the  route  which  he  had  taken, 
had  the  least  glimpse  of  such  an  animal.  The 
two  friends  proposed  riding  a  few  miles  back 
upon  the  road  to  ascertain,  if  possible,  the  cause 
of  the  detention ;  but  the  challenger  concluded 
that  their  presence  might  endanger  the  success 
of  his  bet;  and  they  both  concluded  to  wait 
over  the  finest  supper  which  the  season  af- 
forded, for  the  arrival  of  their  dilatory  messenger. 

But  to  return  to  the  dog.  He  had  gone  back 
with  many  a  useless  hunt  over  field,  hedge, 
and  by-way,  scenting  every  course  which  the 
travellers  had  pursued,  and  wasting  his  labours 
at  every  spot  where  they  alighted  for  refresh- 
ment on  their  journey.  After  many  fruitless  en- 
deavours, he  approached,  at  last,  the  identical 
place  where  the  treasure  was  deposited,  and  evi- 
denced, by  his  motions  and  whinings,  his  exulta- 
tion at  the  discovery.  He  proceeded  to  storm 
ihe  citadel,  which  detained  his  master's  property; 


but,  notwithstanding  all  his  pawings,  resistances, 
and  barkings,  poor  Romeo  was  unable  to  raise 
the  mighty  stone,  and  like  many  superior  bipeds 
before  him,  confessed  himself  honourably  van- 
quished. His  only  remedy  was  patience;  and 
who  knows,  he  might  have  thought,  what  will  be 
the  consequence  of  my  persevering  fidelity ! 
Here  he  sat,  like  an  unwearied  sentinel,  guarding 
treasures  which  he  could  not  attain,  sometimes 
looking  at  the  stone,  at  others,  on  the  road,  as  if 
expecting,  as  a  last  resource,  some  relief  from 
that  quarter.  At  this  juncture,  a  weary,  heavy- 
laden  pedler  was  trudging  slowly  along  the  high- 
way, and  apparently  sinking  under  his  burden ; 
when,  seeing  the  gestures  of  the  dog,  he  supposed 
there  was  some  ground-mole  arresting  his  atten- 
tion. Besides,  here  was  a  fine  animal,  seemingly 
without  an  owner ;  and  if  there  were  no  treasure 
to  reward  his  search,  he  might  lay  claim  to  a 
faithful  creature,  to  be  the  companion  of  his  wan- 
derings. Whatever  were  his  reflections,  he  came 
to  the  stone,  the  object  of  the  dog's  solicitude, 
and  disburdening  himself  of  his  wallet,  he  re- 
moved the  former  with  considerable  difficulty; 
when  perceiving,  to  his  surprise,  a  shining  silver 
dollar,  he  secured  it  with  the  avidity  of  a  fowl 


24 

picking  at  a  grain  of  corn,  and  without  regarding 
the  rights  of  the  dog,  slipped  it  into  his  over- 
hawls,  whose  merry  jingle  as  it  rolled  in  bespoke 
the  gracious  reception  which  it  received.  Along 
went  the  pedler  whistling  after  and  caressing  his 
new  companion,  who  appeared  as  well  satisfied 
with  his  adopted  master,  and  manifested  by  the 
playfulness  of  his  gambols  his  gratitude  for  the 
service  which  had  been  rendered.  Overjoyed  at 
his  prize,  the  weary  merchant  flung  down  his 
pack — caressed  again  and  again  his  sociable 
friend,  and  refelt  his  pockets  with  the  air  of  a 
man  particularly  indebted  to  good  fortune.  It 
was  late  at  night,  and  Romeo  was  wandering 
several  miles  farther  from  his  master,  and  ap- 
peared in  no  degree  disposed  to  quit  the  side  of 
the  stranger.  They  arrived  at  last  at  an  inn, 
where  our  trader  not  only  partook  of  a  hearty 
supper,  but  made  the  dog  equally  the  sharer  of  his 
good  cheer.  They  feasted  daintily  until  the  sea- 
son of  bedtime ;  when,  fearful  of  losing  so  valua- 
ble a  prize,  the  pedler  conducted  the  animal  into 
his  room ;  concluding,  that  if  so  friendly  to  him, 
he  might  possibly  fall  a  victim  to  the  caresses  of 
others.  Romeo  was,  in  no  respect,  unwilling  to 
follow  him,  for  he  had  been  always  accustomed 


to  a  soft  bed,  and  he  had  no  intention  tor  that 
night  of  abandoning  his  generous  benefactor. 
Having  secured  the  door,  and  carefully  attended 
to  the  safety  of  his  goods,  the  fatigued  traveller 
prepared  for  bed;  and  after  extinguishing  the 
light,  hung  his  clothes  over  the  back  of  a  huge 
arm-chair,  which  almost  sunk  down  with  the 
weight  of  valuables  it  contained.  Adjusting 
his  head  upon  the  pillow,  he  listened  to  Romeo 
snoring  under  the  bed ;  and  as  he  looked  through 
the  open  window  upon  the  golden  stars  that 
twinkled  upon  his  sight,  he  felt  himself  the  most 
fortunate  of  beings,  and  closed  his  eyes  with  the 
reasonable  prospect  of  enjoying  his  dog  and  pro- 
perty in  the  morning. 

But  Romeo  was  in  a  far  different  plight.  He 
was  really  leg-weary  and  anxious  to  seek  the 
face  of  his  old  master,  although  for  a  moment  a 
transient  slumber  overcame  him ;  but  no  sooner 
did  he  hearken  to  the  snore  of  the  pedler,  than 
he  gently  made  up  to  the  clothes  chair,  and  at- 
tempted to  draw  down  the  overhawls ;  but  they 
were  unluckily  detained  by  an  obstinate  button- 
hole that  was  looped  in  the  edge.  Hearing  his 
clothes  moving,  the  awakened  traveller,  fearful 

No.  I.— 4 


26 

that  thieves  were  disturbing  him,  demanded 
"  who 's  there  ?"  and  raising  himself  in  the  bed, 
saw  nothing  but  the  room  that  was  enlightened 
by  the  moon,  just  setting  in  her  last  wane,  and 
the  faithful  dog  standing  at  his  side,  who  gently 
licked  his  hand,  as  if  promising  to  defend  him 
from  every  threatened  injury.  Convinced  of  the 
futility  of  his  fears,  he  felt  of  his  clothes,  and  con- 
cluded that  they  had  merely  slipped  down ;  he 
then  raised  them  from  the  arm  to  place  them 
more  securely,  and  again  he  fell  back  on  his 
pillow  and  snored  away  as  loudly  as  if  nothing 
had  disturbed  him.  The  faithful  animal  could 
wait  no  longer.  Springing  upon  the  small  clothes, 
he  was  out  of  the  window  in  the  twinkling  of  an 
eye,  bearing  away  the  treasures  of  him  who  was 
sweetly  dreaming  of  a  prosperous  market  for  his 
calicoes,  and  the  pleasure  of  being  escorted,  on 
the  morrow,  by  his  invaluable  dog. 

In  the  meanwhile,  our  friends  had  partaken  oi 
an  excellent  supper ;  the  one  repining  at  the  ab- 
sence of  his  dog,  and  the  other  dreaming  of  his 
anticipated  winnings,  and  exemption  from  the 
expenses  of  the  day.  They  awoke  at  break  of 
dawn  to  pursue  their  journey ;  and  while  thr- 


27 

former  was  putting  into  the  hands  of  his  friend, 
and  host,  the  amount  of  his  losses,  in  came  Ro- 
meo with  the  pair  of  overhawls,  dripping  and 
besmeared  with  water  and  mud,  and  laid  them, 
with  all  their  contents,  at  the  feet  of  his  master. 
"  Stop,  then,"  cried  the  latter, "  and  let  us  examine 
this  pocket-book,  before  we  determine  who  is  to 
be  the  paymaster."  "I  am  willing  to  sustain  all 
damages,"  replied  the  other,  in  a  roar  of  merri- 
ment, "  provided  this  be  the  only  promissory  note, 
you  can  ensure  me  for  your  success."  They 
quickly  searched  the  contents,  consisting  of 
watches,  jewelry,  and  silver  coin;  and  among 
them  the  identical  dollar,  with  the  well-known 
mark,  staring  them  in  the  face.  The  articles  were 
hung  up  and  advertised ;  and  not  long  after  they 
were  sent  for  by  the  poor  pedler,  who  had  been 
detained  two  whole  days  in  bed,  until  his  inex- 
pressibles were  found;  when,  it  is  said,  he  posi- 
tively vowed,  to  have  nothing  more  to  do  with 
lost  money,  and  more  particularly,  with  strayed, 
good-natured  dogs. 


THE   VISIT, 


And  thus  as  in  memory's  bark  we  shall  glide 

To  visit  the  scenes  of  our  boyhood  anew, 
Though  oft  we  may  see,  looking  down  on  the  tide, 

The  wreck  of  full  many  a  hope  shining  through  ; 
Yet  still  as  in  fancy  we  point  to  the  flow'rs 

That  once  made  a  garden  of  all  the  gay  shore, 
Deceiv'd  for  a  moment,  we'll  still  think  them  ours, 

And  breathe  the  fresh  air  of  life's  morning  anew. 

T.  MOORE, 


IT  was  at  the  close  of  a  summer's  afternoon, 
that  I  was  sauntering  through  one  of  the  charm- 
ing villages  which  lie  on  the  banks  of  the  Hud- 
son. Its  dark,  stone  church,  shaded  by  a  row 
of  locusts,  which  enclosed  its  modest  green, 
seemed  reposing  at  a  distance  from  the  cares 
of  the  little  world  around  it.  A  post-chaise  was 
emancipating  its  passengers  at  the  door  of  the 
opposite  hotel,  and  several  villagers  were  lag- 
ging inquiringly  near  it,  either  to  catch  a  portion 
of  its  "  mighty  world  of  news,"  or  the  counte- 
nances of  the  travellers  alighting  on  the  piazza. 


29 

Strolling  along,  I  crossed  a  rude  bridge,  em- 
bracing a  narrow  stream,  which  fed  several  mills 
that  fretted  the  bordering  banks.  A  sparkling 
sheet  of  water  dashed  in  silvery  whiteness  near 
me,  and  raved  away  among  the  rocks  that  dis- 
puted its  intrusive  course.  The  giant  branches 
of  the  horse-chesnut  threw  a  mellow  shade  upon 
the  agitated  water,  and  disclosed  through  their 
partings,  a  view  of  the  village  spire,  whose  ball 
twinkled  like  a  star  on  the  blue  of  the  evening 
sky.  The  desire  of  visiting  a  family,  of  which  I 
had  not  heard  for  years,  induced  me  to  pursue 
my  solitary  ramble.  The  road  was  diversified  by 
hills  and  dales ;  crops  of  the  richest  harvest  were 
bending  to  the  breeze,  and  the  fields  were  vo- 
cally enlivened  by  numerous  flocks  and  herds. 
The  frequent  chirpings  of  some  lonely  bird  sere- 
naded me  from  the  trees,  and  all  nature  was  alive 
with  that  melancholy  hum  that  denotes  its  pre- 
paration for  rest. 

I  soon  reached  the  romantic  spot.  The  mimic 
lake  of  silver  that  supplied  the  mill  in  the  valley 
was  darkened  by  the  hills  of  forest  that  enclosed 
its  tapering  banks.  The  gushing  cataract,  fall- 
ing from  its  planky  bed,  wound  tremulously  along 


30 

the  border  of  the  road,  and  became  suddenly 
lost  in  oblique  windings  among  the  trees.  Pro- 
jecting from  the  mill,  the  massy  wheel  bowed 
beneath  the  pressure  of  the  stream,  and  rising 
proudly  again,  shook  from  the  mossy  paddles  its 
foam  of  liquid  down.  Reverberating  in  hoarse 
murmurs  from  the  hills,  its  roar  is  mistaken,  at  a 
distance,  for  approaching  thunder,  and  the  eye 
instinctively  gazes  on  the  sky. 

I  walked  towards  the  house.  Every  object 
was  altered.  The  window-shutters  were  closed ; 
the  bench,  on  which  I  had  sat  for  hours,  was  fall- 
ing to  decay ;  the  frame  around  which  the  honey- 
suckle entwined  had  lost  several  of  its  sticks : 
the  vine  was  still  there,  but  it  had  withered,  and, 
like  age  in  distress,  had  recourse  for  aid  to  stran- 
gers. It  had  clung  for  support  round  the  last 
remaining  post  of  the  piazza,  which  thus  grate- 
fully repaid  the  shade  it  formerly  enjoyed.  The 
favourite  old  willow  that  overhung  the  entrance 
of  the  garden,  bent  lower  to  the  ground,  and  in- 
creased the  melancholy  gloom  that  preyed  upon 
the  ruins.  I  approached  the  garden — several  of 
its  posts  were  rotten ;  the  gate  was  feebly  fas- 
tened by  a  mouldering  cord :  the  flowers  werr 


31 

either  gone  or  hidden  among  the  weeds;  the 
grass  had  overgrown  the  walks ;  the  brook  that 
trickled  from  the  spring  was  choked  by  leaves 
and  stones ;  but  the  most  affecting  sight  was  the 
skeleton  of  an  animal,  which  was,  perhaps,  the 
favourite  house-dog,  that  had,  probably,  died  from 
neglect,  without  a  friend  to  bury  him.  1  raised 
the  knocker,  but  the  rust  had  stiffened  its  joints, 
and  caused  but  a  faint  and  hollow  reverberation. 
I  called  aloud,  but  only  heard  some  bustling 
swallows,  that  were  building  above  the  door,  or 
the  echo  of  my  own  voice,  as  it  stole  back  on 
the  wings  of  the  breeze.  I  could  not  repress  my 
feelings,  but  responded  to  the  memorable,  pathetic 
words  of  Ossian,  "  Silence  reigns  in  the  halls  of 
her  fathers."  Sitting  upon  the  step,  I  recalled 
the  pleasant  hours  I  had  spent  in  the  cottage : 
the  happy  parents — the  lovely  daughter — the 
thousand  nameless  joys  we  indulged — even  the 
faithful  dog,  trudging  whiningly  up  the  steps,  and 
wagging  his  half  curled  tail  in  welcome  of  my 
arrival.  But  the  family  had  gone,  perhaps  for 
ever,  from  the  world.  If  any  thing  can  inspire 
me  with  poetic  associations,  it  is  the  memory  of 
my  early  days ;  and  I  could  not  avoid  indulging 
in  the  following  train  of  reflection : — 


My  early  pleasures  ;  whence  are  they  '< 

The  hours  that  gave  them  birth 
Have  melted  away  as  the  close  of  day, 

When  it  leaves  the  beauteous  earth  ; 
Have  melted  away  as  the  sun's  bright  ray 

Is  lost  in  the  sky  of  even, 
When  the,  star  of  the  west  is  in  splendour  drest. 

In  the  dark  clear  blue  of  heaven. 

Dear  youthful  pleasures !  blest  employ ! 

How  oft  in  fancy's  dream 
Those  visions  of  joy,  no  time  can  destroy, 

In  happy  existence  seem ! 
Their  pensive  light,  like  the  moon  by  night, 

Is  hallow' d,  though  distant  far  ; 
As  the  gem  at  rest  o'er  the  wild  wave's  breast, 

The  mariner's  homeward  star  ! 

Hweet  friends  of  childhood,  gentle  hearts 

To  memory  ever  dear ! 
The  tear  that  starts  when  the  fondest  departs, 

For  you  has  been  sincere ! 
And  the  grief  that  oppress'd  the  aching  breast 

Could  never  be  more  deep  ; 

Oh,  who  has  not  sighed  o'er  joy  that  have  died, 

And  friends  have  sunk  to  sleep ! 

Returning  to  my  lodgings,  I  learned  the  whole 
story  of  the  family,  and  as  it  may,  possibly,  be  in- 
foresting,  I  will  endeavour  briefly  to  relate  it. 


JIARY 


Love,  like  od'rous  zephyr's  grateful  breath, 
Tlepays  the  flower  that  sweetness  which  it  borrow7*]. 

MII/TOX* 


MARY  LINDEN  was  the  flower  of  the  little  vil- 
lage circle.  Like  most  young  females  confined 
to  rural  society  and  enjoyments,  she  knew  little 
of  the  world  beyond  her  native  home,  and  was 
educated  in  the  useful,  rather  than  the  showy 
accomplishments  of  life.  She  was  not  beautiful, 
but  there  was  a  delicacy  of  form  and  sweetness 
of  countenance,  that  silenced  the  gazing  critic ; 
and  such  a  soul  of  meaning  beamed  from  her 
eyes,  that  the  expression  of  her  features  was  en- 
tirely forgotten.  A  disposition  kind,  artless,  and 
enthusiastic,  seldom  fails  to  win  attention  and 
esteem ;  and  if  to  be  the  theme  of  conversation 
and  the  confidant  of  friends  are  proofs  of  love, 
then  Mary  was  blest  with  the  affection  of  all 
who  knew  her. 

No.  It.— i 


34 

Divided  between  their  dutiful  child,  and  their 
hopes  of  heaven,  time  stole  insensibly  away  from 
her  delighted  parents.  They  regarded  her  as 
the  last  and  richest  gift  of  Providence;  they 
wished  to  see  her  happily  married;  and  hoped, 
when  their  declining  sun  should  set,  to  give  her. 
that  best  and  holiest  of  gifts — the  dying  parental 
blessing.  There  is  something  peculiarly  inter- 
esting, I  may  almost  say  divine,  in  the  parting 
blessing  of  parents.  Their  life  resembles  an 
odorous  lamp  continually  emitting  a  most  deli- 
cious fragrance;  but  when  the  nourishment  is 
nearly  consumed,  its  last  remaining  drops  com- 
bine, and  with  one  instant  of  brilliancy  pour  out 
their  precious  -perfume  to  be  enjoyed  in  this 
world  no  more. 

During  one  of  the  visitations  of  the  yellow 
fever  some  years  ago,  when  thousands  were 
flying  in  terror  from  the  city,  a  young  man,  of 
the  name  of  Clifford,  fixed  on  a  transient  resi- 
dence near  Mr.  Linden's  cottage.  His  person 
was  delicate,  but  well  proportioned ;  and  his  face 
spoke  forth  such  a  sweet-natured  benevolence, 
that  the  eye  which  encountered  his,  supposed 
itself  beloved.  The  father  of  William  Clifford 


m 


was  a  merchant  of  New-York,  who  never  suffered 
his  ideas  to  stray  beyond  the  bounds  of  specula- 
tion. His  busiest  care  was  the  converting  of 
cents  into  dollars,  and  beholding  his  son  elegantly 
settled  in  life.  So  devoted  was  he  to  business, 
that  he  had  no  time  to  spare  for  the  relaxations 
of  the  country,  and  he  preferred  parting  with 
his  son  to  missing  an  opportunity  of  adding  to 
his  fortune.  His  opinions  of  marriage  were 
never  associated  with  the  influence  of  the  blind 
Deity.  "Love,"  he  always  said,  "was  a  mere 
phantom  of  the  brain,  talked  of  like  ghosts, 
which  the  majority  believe  in,  but  which  no  one 
could  assert  he  had  positively  seen.  Even  if  ex- 
isting at  all,  he  can  only  live  under  the  torrid 
zone  of  prosperity ;  but  carry  him  to  the  frozen 
regions  of  poverty,  and  the  rascal  freezes  to 
death  in  despair ;  but  money  inhabits  all  climates, 
is  adapted  to  all  changes  and  depressions,  and 
wherever  there  is  plenty  of  money,  marriage  will 
always  ensure  plenty  of  comfort."  With  a  pa- 
rent of  such  an  opinion,  the  situation  of  a 
daughter  is  truly  pitiable.  Every  warm  feeling 
of  the  heart  must  be  subdued — the  fire  of  hope 
must  be  extinguished — the  blossoiji  of  affection 
must  be  withered  beneath  the  pestilential  mildew 


I 


oi'  parental  selfishness.  The  son  is  more  favour- 
ably situated.  Even  if  suffering  the  displeasure 
of  an  ungenerous  father,  he  can  seek  in  the 
world  for  diversion  from  his  troubles.  Amidst 
the  turmoils  of  business,  he  can  almost  drown 
the  sorrows  that  afflict  him,  and  enjoy  a  transient 
respite  from  the  gallings  of  reflection;  but  even 
through  the  clouds  of  business,  he  will  often 
catch  a  melancholy  view  of  that  glimmering 
light,  which  once  shone  so  beautifully  resplend- 
ent. But  what  is  there  for  the  female  ?  With- 
out variety,  and  often  condemned  to  the  im- 
prisonment of  her  chamber,  she  there  but  re- 
poisons  her  happiness  with  the  memory  of  sor- 
row, and  drives  in  more  deeply  the  arrow  that  is 
rankling  in  her  bosom.  The  paradise  of  home 
is  changed  to  a  loathsome  dungeon,  where  she  is 
refused  what  is  allowed  the  criminal — the  sym- 
pathy of  misfortune.  Each  returning  day  adds 
a  new  link  to  the  chain  which  keeps  her  from 
her  lover,  and  which,  bound  so  firmly,  threatens 
of  its  own  weight  to  tear  out  the  heart  which  it 
enslaves.  She  has  no  visions  of  happiness,  no 
consoling  surmises,  no  bosom  to  echo  her  dis- 
tress ;  but  sl|p  sits  wrapped  in  the  spell  a  cruel 
parent  has  woven,  and  cherishes  a  flame,  which. 


37 

slowly  consuming  her  peace,  can  only  be  extin- 
guished by  the  death-damp  of  the  grave.  It  is 
not  a  little  curious  to  observe,  on  the  other  hand, 
the  secrecy  with  which  faithful  hearts  often  hold 
communion.  The  most  rigid  parents  may  enact 
laws,  but  cannot  always  enforce  them.  A  note 
conveyed  by  an  unknown  hand- — an  assignation 
to  meet  at  the  house  of  some  approving  relative 
— and  numerous  other  inventions  will  often  cross 
the  lines  in  spite  of  the  most  watchful  sentinel. 
The  ore  of  love  should  be  tried  in  the  furnace  of 
affliction,  for  it  can  only  thus  be  purified  from 
its  dross,  and  its  true  value  known  and  appre- 
ciated. 

Mary  had  just  attained  her  seventeenth  year 
when  William  took  up  his  residence  in  the  val- 
ley. A  trifling  circumstance  soon  made  them 
acquainted ;  for  it  is  surprising  how  little  exer- 
tion it  requires  to  second  the  overtures  of  the 
heart ;  and  on  the  other  hand,  what  insuperable 
barriers  must  be  surmounted  when  the  inclina- 
tion must  be  forced  from  its  channel.  It  was 
at  a  village  party  he  first  saw  her.  She  was 
neatly  attired  in  white,  with  a  simple  pink  riband 
encircling  her  waist,  and  a  small  boquet  of 


SB 

flowers  braiding  together  the  dark  chesnut  curls 
that  played  around  her  forehead.  She  seemed 
to  him  like  the  modest  lily,  lifting  its  unassuming 
head  above  the  flowers  around  it,  the  pride  of  its 
companions,  but  unconscious  of  its  superiority. 
When  they  parted,  the  language  of  their  eyes 
spoke  more  eloquently  than  words.  Young,  art- 
less, and  confiding,  they  had  no  object  in  con- 
cealing their  regard  :  they  felt  that  deep-impas- 
sioned fondness  which  lures  the  young  heart  to 
repose,  on  the  downy  pillow  of  hope.  It  was 
unknown  to  his  father  that  William  visited  the 
cottage.  Mrs.  Linden  feared  the  consequences. 
She  felt  the  disparity  of  situation,  the  inequality 
of  mental  endowments,  and  a  thousand  other  ob- 
jections which  a  fond  mother  will  always  urge  in 
behalf  of  a  beloved  child.  Mary  confessed  the 
value  of  her  mother's  opinion,  but  tremblingly 
hoped  that  the  issue  would  be  different.  Their 
situations  and  circumstances  she  confessed 
widely  differed;  but  there  was  one  in  Which 
there  was  no  superiority — they  loved  each  other. 
Love  knows  no  distinctions.  He  respects  as 
much  the  peasant  as  the  prince :  and  however 
great  the  disparity  in  every  other  situation,  all 
who  kneel  at  his  altar  equally  receive  his  blessing. 


30 

There  is  a  time  of  life  when  the  passions  are 
ardent  and  difficult  of  restraint,  when  the  heart 
is  susceptible  of  every  impression,  and  like 
melted  wax  once  enstamped,  the  image  must  be 
broken  to  be  destroyed.  Thus  it  was  with  Mary 
— she  would  trust  every  thing  to  William — his 
very  thoughts  and  language  were  hers ;  and,  like 
the  air  he  breathed,  wherever  he  went,  her 
thoughts  would  instinctively  follow. 

Often  at  sunset,  they  would  stroll  along  the 
Hudson,  and  gaze  together  upon  its  variegated 
scenery : — the  white-sailed  sloops,  deeply  la^ltii 
with  produce,  and  marking  their  courses  through 
paths  of  silvery  foam — the  distant  palisades 
lifting  their  frowning  heads  above  the  dark 
waves  that  border  them  below — the  passing 
steamboats  flying  on  their  wingy  paddles,  and 
pouring  forth  their  volumes  of  smoke  upon  the 
tranquil  air — the  bright  forests  of  evergreen 
overhanging  the  river,  and  always  smiling,  like 
the  good  man,  as  well  in  adversity  as  joy — the 
lofty  hills  beyond  Tappan,  dark  amid  sunshine, 
and  melting  behind  each  other  into  the  blue  of 
the  distant  sky— the  golden  clouds  piled  upon  the 
west  as  if  they  were  the  garments  of  the  sun 


40 

thrown  off  at  his  entrance  into  his  chamber — and 
the  foaming  streamlets  escaping  the  thraldom 
of  numerous  mills,  and  paying  their  small  but 
welcome  tribute  to  the  Hudson.  Then  he  would 
amuse  her  by  the  recital  of  the  most  popular 
incidents  of  history,  lead  her  through  the  richest 
fields  of  poetry  and  romance,  and  delineate  so 
happily  the  enjoyments  of  the  future,  that  she 
fairly  revelled  in  the  little  paradise  of  his  crea- 
tion. Often  at  evening,  the  young  companions 
of  Mary  would  assemble  under  the  willow,  and 
amuse  each  other  with  the  passing  incidents  of 
tl^  village.  Then  they  would  listen  to  the 
sweet  notes  of  William's  flute  as  he  accom- 
panied Mary  in  one  of  his  favourite  songs.  It 
was  the  composition  of  a  friend  long  since  de- 
parted, and  was  cherished  by  William  as  the 
dearest  memento  of  his  affection. 

Forget  thee  ?  No  ;  I'll  ne'er  forget 
That  joyous  hour  when  first  we  met : 

No,  never,  never. 
Our  love  was  like  a  tender  flower, 
That  early  bloomed  in  Flora's  bower  ; 
Alternately  sun,  dew,  and  shade, 
With  cheerfulness  bestow'd  their  aid. 
Believing  that  the  flow'r  was  made    ;.  »>  ^ 

To  bloom  for  ever- 


41 


True  love  's  a  plant  to  mortals  given  ; 
Which  blooms  on  earth,  but  roots  in  heaven  ; 

It  lives  for  ever. 
A  bird  of  Paradise  that  flings 
Rich  odours  from  its  spicy  wings  : 
A  spark  electric  that  doth  move 
Our  hearts  to  think  on  joys  above : — 
The  breath  of  Deity  is  love 

That  warms  for  ever. 

The  modest  flow'r  that  sinks  in  death, 
Obedient  to  the  cold  wind's  breath, 

Is  lost  for  ever. 

But  though  it  falls  beneath  the  chill, 
Its  sweetest  perfume  haunts  it  still ; 
And  the  young  heart  that  once  has  knelt 
Before  love's  shrine,  and  fondly  felt 
Its  icy  pride  in  rapture  melt, 

Forgets  it  never. 

I  saw  thy  fond  and  faithful  heart, 
When  last  we  met  so  soon  to  part, 

For  ever,  ever. 

It  told  of  days  long,  long  gone  by, 
And  pour'd  forth  volumes  in  each  sigh ; — 
It  spake  a  language  dearly  known 
To  one  whose  heart  was  thine  alone ; — 
Of  a  young  flow'r  just  fully  blown, 

Blighted  for  ever. 
No.  II.— 2 


42 

The  abatement  of  the  fever,  in  the  city,  ren- 
dered it  necessary  for  William  to  return.  He 
knew  that  Mary  loved  him ;  that  in  parting,  the 
fibres  must  be  lacerated,  by  which  their  hearts 
had  grown  together.  He  departed  with  the 
fondest  reciprocation  of  attachment,  and  con- 
tinued for  three  months  secretly  to  visit  the 
cottage.  The  death  of  Mr.  Clifford's  agent  in 
India  required  the  immediate  appointment  of  a 
successor,  and  William  was  selected  to  fill  that 
important  station.  A  dutiful  child  is  not  tempted 
from  his  course  by  the  most  flattering  allure- 
ments. But  how  could  he  part  with  Mary — how 
leave  her,  without  an  explanation  of  his  conduct  ? 
But  yet  how  could  he  communicate  it — how  tell 
her,  that  even  in  the  distant  Indies,  she  still  would 
be  dear  to  him — that  the  remembrance  of  their 
mutual  vows  would  alleviate  the  pangs  of  ab- 
sence ?  By  some  unknown  means  Mr.  Clifford 
became  acquainted  with  William's  visits  to  the 
cottage.  His  pride  determined  to  prevent  the 
consequences ;  and  he  hoped,  by  expediting  the 
voyage  of  his  son,  to  blight  for  ever  the  intended 
alliance.  The  next  morning  was  secretly  ap- 
pointed for  William's  departure.  He  was  about 
stealing  a  visit  to  Mary  that  night — to  that  dear 


object  whom  he  might  see  again  no  more.  It 
was  about  sunset  when  he  came  into  the  vil- 
kge ;  and  the  last  tinges  of  light,  dressing  out 
Nature  in  a  kind  of  melancholy  glory,  seemed 
emblematical  of  his  own  hopes  gradually  ex- 
piring in  darkness.  A  sudden  melancholy  preyed 
upon  his  feelings — he  thought  he  had  come 
there  for  the  last  time,  although  he  had  no  idea 
of  the  nearness  of  the  separation.  Mary  seemed 
that  evening  more  interesting  than  ever.  She 
spoke  so  kindly,  and  used  so  many  soft  methods 
to  win  him  from  his  dejection,  that  her  very  fond- 
ness tended  rather  to  increase  his  melancholy. 
He  tried  gradually  to  break  the  subject — hinted 
at  the  possibility  of  separation — spoke  of  the 
pangs  of  parting, — and  reassured  her  of  the 
fondest  and  most  lasting  fidelity :  but  he  could 
not  speak  of  his  voyage — but  would  defer  it  till 
another  time,  when  her  heart  would  be  better 
prepared.  Who  can  pourtray  the  feelings  of 
Mary  ?  She  feared  something  dreadful  impended ; 
but  her  fears  served  only  to  unite  more  strongly 
the  chains  of  her  attachment.  There  is  nothing 
more  durable  than  woman's  first  love.  Like  the 
unfailing  stream,  which,  stealing  through  the  re- 
cesses of  the  forest,  secretly  struggles  with  the 


impediments  that  obstruct  its  course,  until   it 
mingles  with  some  other  rivulet  with  which  it 
forms  an  identity ;  but,  however  divided  from  its 
channel,  or  diversified  its  way ;  notwithstanding 
the  impossibility  of  attaining  its  destination,  and 
forced  entirely  contrary  to  its  original  course ; 
though  lost  in  perpetual  windings,  and  exposed 
to  the  influence  of  a  scorching  sun,  still  its 
source  in  the  forest  will  always  remain  pure  and 
unchangeable.     They  parted   with  the  solemn 
promise  of  meeting  the  ensuing  evening.     Wil- 
liam took  her  hand,  and  as  he  pressed  it  with  more 
than  usual  earnestness  to  his  bosom,  told  her 
that  nothing  but  death  should  prevent  the  fulfil- 
ment of  his  promise.     On  his  return  home,  he 
learned  the  necessity  of  his  departure  in  the 
morning.     The  vessel  was  prepared — the  com- 
mand of  his  father  was  pressing — he  saw  that 
affection  must  be  sacrificed  at  the  shrine  of  pa- 
rental duty.     The  parting  from  his  family  was 
such  as  might  be  expected — some  tears  were 
shed — and  blessings  bestowed — a  lingering  press 
of  hands — a  last  embrace,  and  he  was  gone. 

The  afternoon  was  beautiful  in  the  country 
The  honeysuckle  reposing  against  the  posts  of 


45 

the  piazza,  breathed  forth  a  delicious  fragrance  : 
the  torrent  dashing  from  the  neighbouring  mill- 
dam  sparkled  as  brilliantly  as  ever :  the  birds 
had  never  more  sweetly  serenaded  the  cottage : 
a  sweet  boquet  of  flowers  blushed  most  be- 
witchingly  from  its  China  prison  on  the  mantel : 
a  fresh  bunch  of  asparagus  was  budding  on  the 
hearth  and  above  the  pictures :  a  pair  of  new 
curtains,  as  white  as  the  driven  snow,  hung  from 
the  windows,  while  on  each  side  a  nosegay  of 
sweet  flowers  concealed  the  nails  by  which  the 
loops  were  supported.  Mary  alone  was  gloomy. 
She  was  meditating  on  the  last  words  of  Wil- 
liam— on  his  wild  air — and  the  possibility  (as  he 
hinted)  of  a  lasting  separation.  What  could  be 
its  meaning  ?  Could  he  be  really  faithless,  or 
was  he  constrained  by  the  cruelty  of  an  ungene- 
rous father?  The  evening  came — but  where 
was  William  ?  At  every  opening  of  the  gate — 
at  every  barking  of  the  dog — at  every  approach- 
ing step,  the  lovely  sentinel  was  certain  it  was 
her  lover.  She  could  not  sleep:  her  parents 
were  disturbed  by  terrifying  dreams,  and  woke 
the  next  morning  to  relate  their  apprehensions. 
The  next  evening,  and  a  whole  week  transpired, 
and  he  had  not  yet  made  his  appearance.  Se- 


cret  inquiries  were  made  of  him  in  the  city,  but 
his  father  pretended  ignorance;  and  it  was  im- 
possible to  learn  any  thing,  except  some  vague 
reports,  that  he  had  been  casually  seen,  but  had 
as  suddenly  departed.  He  could  not  have  been 
false,  but  must  either  have  destroyed  himself,  or 
been  accidentally  drowned.  The  villagers  were 
questioned — the  neighbouring  streams  and  woods 
were  searched,  but  not  a  trace  of  him  remained. 
A  pocket-handkerchief  was  found  bearing  the 
initials  W.  C.,  with  a  few  torn  papers  here  and 
there  in  the  woods,  and  fragments  of  writing 
that  could  not  be  deciphered.  His  mysterious 
words  at  parting  struck  poor  Mary  to  the  heart. 
She  believed  him  dead — and,  like  the  flower  of 
the  valley,  she  bowed  resignedly  to  the  blast  that 
withered  the  blossom  of  her  joys. 

A  month  elapsed,  and  yet  no  tidings  of  him 
were  heard.  It  was  reported  by  the  young  vil- 
lagers, that  he  was  seen  sitting  on  the  bank  of 
the  river — sometimes  wandering  along  the  paths 
where  he  loved  to  walk  with  Mary — at  others, 
around  the  cottage — and  the  well-known  music 
of  his  flute  was  heard  of  a  still  evening  near  the 
lake.  One  of  the  rustics  affirmed  that  he  saw 


47 

him,  one  moonlight  night,  upon  the  bridge,  fixing 
a  sepulchral  gaze  upon  the  glassy  waterfall  thun- 
dering by  its  side.  Others  beheld  him  walking 
upon  the  river ;  while  a  few  had  the  folly  to  assert 
they  perceived  him  plunging  down  the  mill-dam, 
and  sometimes  riding  upon  a  fiery  charger,  at 
full  speed  through  the  village.  All  these  stories 
were  sacredly  treasured  up  by  the  superstitious, 
and  had  considerable  effect  in  persuading  the 
cottagers,  that  William  must  be  no  more.  Su- 
perstition is  a  disease  contagious  to  all  ranks  of 
society;  and  they  who  most  sturdily  deny  the 
existence  of  apparitions,  are  the  very  first  prose- 
lytes, when  the  popular  voice  is  in  their  favour. 
If  there  be  a  superstition,  which  may  be  inno- 
cently indulged,  surely  that  which  augments  the 
testimony  of  a  future  state  may  be  allowed,  to 
inspire  those  requiring  such  numerous  incentives 
for  preparation.  To  stories  like  these,  Mary 
herself  was  incredulous,  as  she  could  not  believe 
that  the  happily  departed  would  ever  re-mingle  in 
the  miseries  of  the  world,  and  break  through 
established  laws  for  purposes  so  exceedingly 
futile.  Sitting  alone  one  evening  in  her  cham- 
ber, she  heard  the  mellow  warblings  of  a  flute, 
apparently  issuing  from  behind  the  garden.  She 


48 

listened  a  tew  moments,  entranced  by  the  sooth- 
ing melody,  and  almost  fancied  it  was  the  flute 
of  William  playing  its  favourite  air.  It  continued 
but  a  short  time ;  and  although  she  waited  seve- 
ral hours  in  anxious  suspense,  it  was  heard  no 
more  that  evening.  The  family  searched  every 
part  of  the  garden,  but  not  a  creature  was  there, 
and  no  one  had  been  seen  passing  along  that 
way.  Poor  Mary  was  absolutely  confounded, 
and  she  listened  several  evenings  for  a  repetition 
of  the  sounds ;  but  she  returned  disappointed, 
and  felt  almost  inclined  to  believe  that  it  might 
be  the  spirit  of  her  lover.  Her  parents  tried  to 
dissuade  her  from  such  a  sentiment,  and  ascribed 
the  music  to  the  echoes  produced  by  the  winding 
hill,  supposing  it  to  proceed  from  some  solitary 
idler,  thinking  of  any  thing  else  but  disturbing  a 
harmless  family.  All  these  observations  little 
tended  to  wear  away  Mary's  impressions.  There 
were  no  tears  or  complaints  to  testify  her  sor- 
rows ;  for  true  grief,  like  decay,  does  its  work  in 
silence,  and  is  only  known  by  the  ruin  it  occa- 
sions. 

At    the   close  of  a  calm   summer   evening, 
enlightened  by  the  golden-faced  mirror  of  the 


harvest  moon,  Mary  was  sitting  under  the  arbour 
of  the  piazza,  contemplating  the  undulations  of 
light  admitted  by  the  trembling  vine-leaves,  as 
they  were  moved  by  the  refreshing  breeze,  that 
was  fanning  the  sultry  air.  All  nature  was  re- 
posing but  the  restless  stream ;  and  nothing  was 
heard  but  a  few  bustling  swallows  contending 
with  each  other  for  the  best  share  of  their  rich 
feathered  nest.  Mary's  parents  were  sitting  in 
the  little  hall,  talking  over,  no  doubt,  the  en- 
dearments of  their  younger  days,  or  looking 
forward  with  concern  to  the  disposal  of  their 
daughter.  Mary  was  humming  her  lover's  fa- 
vourite air,  and  was  listening  to  the  softness  of 
the  echoes  as  they  stole  from  an  opposite  emi- 
nence. On  a  sudden  she  heard  the  melting 
notes  of  the  same  flute  which  had  lately  sc 
pleased  and  amazed  her.  It  played  a  little  while ; 
and  she  was  sure  she  recognised  the  beloved 
air ;  and  then  it  was  repeated — and  then  it  died 
away  as  if  by  magic.  What  was  her  surprise 
when  she  heard  the  well-known,  voice  of  Wil- 
liam singing  the  simple  and  well-remembered 
words,  furnished  him  by  a  friend,  and  which  were 
singularly  calculated  to  soothe  her  melancholy  : 

No.  II.—-. 


50 

The  evening  sky — the  evening  sky- 
How  bright  its  glories  are  ! 

Exciting  thoughts  of  things  that  lie 
Above  yon  radiant  star. 

The  joys  our  spirits  burn  to  know, 

Will  never  here  be  given  ; 
The  fountain  whence  true  pleasures  flow, 

Is  only  found  in  heaven. 

When  we  have  slept  that  dreamless  sleep, 
Which  dearest  hearts  must  sever  ; 

O  may  we  wake  no  more  to  weep, 
But  live  in  smiles  for  ever ! 


She  felt  that  she  wanted  the  power  to  move. — 
Was  she  mistaken?  She  fancied  she  heard  a 
light  step  approaching  from  behind  the  avenue. 
She  was  not  sure ;  but  listening  again,  she  heard 
another,  and  another ;  and  by  means  of  the  soft 
moonlight,  streaming  through  the  leaves,  she 
caught  the  dim  figure  of  a  man  crossing  the 
entrance  of  the  arbour ;  and  just  as  he  reached 
the  spot,  where  the  moonbeams  fell  upon  his 
person,  she  fancied  she  saw  Clifford  with  his 
flute  in  his  hand,  who,  looking  anxiously  round, 
pronounced  the  name  of  "  Mary."  A  faint  dim- 
ness gathered  on  her  sight ;  and  summoning  in- 


61 

btant  fortitude,  she  fled  into  the  house  and  in- 
formed her  parents  of  the  singular  apparition. 
All  their  persuasions  could  not  satisfy  her  of  de- 
lusion: she  was  sure  she  had  beheld  his  very 
face  and  eye;  had  heard  his  own  flute,  voice, — 
and  her  own  name  pronounced  in  the  exact  way 
he  always  accosted  her.  Her  parents  per- 
ceived the  prognostics  of  a  mental  malady; 
and  well  they  might  -,  for  the  poor  girl  not  only 
endured  the  anguish  of  disappointed  love,  but 
feared  she  had  provoked  her  lover's  spirit  to  dis- 
turb her  repose.  She  regarded  this  appear- 
ance as  the  real  token  of  her  William's  death. 
She  began  to  wander  alone  amid  the  scenes 
they  once  frequented,  and  invoke  the  shade  of 
her  departed  lover.  Her  parents  wept  in  silence 
over  the  idol  of  their  hearts ;  but  tears  are  feeble 
ministers  to  the  grief  of  a  distracted  mind.  A 
few  months  since,  Mary  was  the  delight  of  the 
village ;  but  now — how  altered !  Her  tall,  grace- 
ful form  bent  down  like  a  tender  rose-bud  over- 
charged with  tears;  her  dark  hair  carelessly 
floated  on  her  forehead,  and  parted  in  natural 
ringlets  about  her  snowy  neck.  Her  bright 
blue  eye  had  lost  its  brilliancy;  and  the  rose 
of  her  cheek  had  given  place  to  the  paleness 


52 

ol'  the  lily.  She  was  beautiful  even  in  misior- 
tune,  like  the  rainbow,  more  lovely  for  the  cloud 
on  which  it  shines;  but  her  half-suppressed  words, 
vacant  looks,  and  sudden  smiles  that  occasion- 
ally lighted  her  countenance,  bespoke  the  pro- 
bability of  a  partial  derangement.  Her  mother 
imagining  her  recovery  hopeless,  and  having 
used  every  effort  to  alleviate  her  sorrows,  gave 
herself  up  to  the  canker-worm  of  grief,  and  died 
of  a  broken  heart,  a  martyr  to  maternal  disap- 
pointment. 

The  ways  of  Providence  are  often  dark  in 
domestic  dispensations.  When  we  behold  the 
brightest  sky  overcast  by  the  darkest  clouds ; 
or  view  the  placid  stream  raised  to  an  inundation 
by  its  innumerable  sources;  we  acknowledge 
that  the  fertility  of  the  plain  is  the  necessary  ac- 
companiment, and  we  wonder  no  more  at  the 
singular  calamity.  But  when  we  contemplate 
pecuniary  misfortunes  palsying  the  arm  of  in* 
dustiry,  or  the  poison  of  disease  wasting  away 
the  pride  of  health  and  beauty — when  we  survey 
the  havoc  occasioned  by  the  last  enemy  of  man, 
and  weep  over  the  precious  buds  and  fruits  that 
have  been  blighted  or  swept  away  by  the  tern- 


53 

. 

pest,  why  can  we  not  perceive  an  overruling 
Providence  here,  enriching  and  maturing  the 
heritage  of  the  moral  world  ?  "  For,  as  some 
medicines  are  healing  to  the  stomach  which  are 
bitter  to  the  palate ;  and  as  it  is  by  bruising  and 
dividing  its  particles  that  cinnabar  assumes  a 
vivid  brilliancy,  and  thence  becomes  vermilion ; 
so,  by  the  storms  and  trials  of  an  adverse  for- 
tune, patience  exalts  itself  into  resignation,  and 
resignation  into  gratitude." 

With  the  depression  of  his  spirits,  sunk  also 
the- father's  stimulus  for  industry.  He  was  no 
longer  seen  turning  up  the  mellow  soil  of  his 
farm.  The  garden  became  overrun  with  weeds ; 
and  every  object  assumed  a  wild  and  desolate 
appearance,  as  if  its  inhabitants  had  long  since 
deserted  it.  The  debts  of  Mr.  Linden  amounted 
to  a  considerable  sum :  the  produce  of  the  farm 
was  insufficient  to  liquidate  them;  and  the 
wretched  man  perceived  that  ruin  would  soon 
complete  the  climax  of  his  misfortunes.  He 
was  soon  arrested  by  an  officer  of  justice ;  his 
goods  were  levied  upon,  and  advertised  for  sale 
the  following  week.  The  blow  was  indeed  se- 
vere; but  what  should  he  do  with  Mary?  the 


54 

• 

knowledge  of  this  might  break  her  heart.  She 
smiled  when  she  heard  the  particulars,  and 
taking  her  father's  hand,  piteously  replied, — 
"  Poor  father !  You'll  no  more  have  any  home 
— none  to  comfort  you ; — but  I — I  have  a  home 
which  no  one  can  take  away ;  William  gave  it 
me.  There — there,  on  that  rock,  beside  that 
weeping-willow,  we  will  live  so  happy,  and  mo- 
ther will  come  there  too,  and  William  will  be 
there. — I  will  gather  flowers,  and  William  shall 
make  a  wreath  for  your  head,  and  one  for  mo- 
ther's— but  none  for  mine  ; — my  hot  brain  would 
scorch  their  pretty  leaves,  and  that  you  know 
were  piteous.  Aye,  and  his  flute — the  little  birds 
will  sit  on  the  branches  over  our  heads  and  listen 
to  his  music — oh  father!  how  pleasant  it  will 
be !"  Her  aged  father  could  not  suppress  his 
feelings :  he  held  his  hand  more  firmly  in  hers, 
while  tears  of  anguish  rolled  down  his  cheeks, 
as  he  said,  "Yes,  dear  Mary,  we  have  a  home  I 
trust ;  we  have  an  unchanging  home  in  heaven, 
where  I  hope  we  shall  all  meet,  never  more  to 
be  separated.*'  The  day  soon  arrived  when  they 
were  to  experience  a  severer  trial.  It  was  a 
cloudless  summer  morning,  not  unlike  that,  when 
William  and  Mary  became  acquainted. 


father  had  been  busily  engaged  among  his  pa- 
pers, while  Mary  was  sitting  in  melancholy 
silence,  surveying  for  the  last  time,  those  domes- 
tic conveniences  which  were  so  soon  to  be  sa- 
crificed. Here  was  her  favourite  dressing-table 
— there  were  her  own  pictures,  which  William 
had  taught  her  to  draw — there  the  old-fashioned 
bureau  and  chairs,  rendered  doubly  dear  because 
prized  by  her  late  affectionate  mother.  There 
is  something  inexpressibly  painful  in  parting  with 
those  moveables  with  which  we  have  been  fa- 
miliar from  our  infancy.  It  is  like  separating 
from  the  very  friends  of  our  bosom — we  feel  as 
if  we  were  cast  once  more  upon  a  desolate 
world,  and  we  realize  the  uncertainty  of  our  pil- 
grimage condition. 

The  officer  had  already  commenced  the  per- 
formance of  his  duty,  and  was  offering  for  sale 
the  first  article — Mary's  work-table — when  a 
figure  at  a  distance  was  seen  approaching  the 
arbour ;  and,  hearing  the  voice  of  the  auctioneer, 
he  stood  suddenly  still,  as  if  desirous  of  listening 
to  the  proceedings.  His  countenance  bore  an 
exact  similitude  to  Clifford's;  but  it  was  pale 
and  worn  down  by  trouble,  and  unlike  that. 


5t> 

which,  two  years  ago,  appeared  so  fresh  and 
blooming.  At  repeating  the  name  of  the  article, 
the  company  was  interrupted  by  the  forbidding 
voice  of  the  stranger — "  Forbear— forbear !" 
"  'Tis  Clifford's  ghost,"  cried  several  of  the  won- 
dering multitude,  and  shrunk  back  from  the  door 
in  terror.  "  I  am  flesh  and  blood,"  replied  Wil- 
liam, "  and  am  come  to  relieve  this  family  from 
ruin. — Minister  of  justice,  take  this  purse  and 
leave  us,  or,  by  my  existence,  you  shall  feel  the 
vengeance,  your  cruelty  deserves.'*  The  villagers 
fled  away  from  what  they  considered  an  appa- 
rition, and  left  the  family  alone  with  the  agitated 
Clifford.  Mary  gazed  upon  him — then  upon  her 
father — a  vacant  smile  played  upon  her  features. 
She  looked  again,  and  with  her  hands  over  her 
face  exclaimed, — "take  him  away — take  him 
away — he's  an  impostor; — he's  not  William 
— my  William 's  dead — he  would  deceive  you." 
He  affectionately  approached  her : — "  Touch  me 
not,"  she  added — "  do  you  not  see  these  flowers  ? 
they  were  gathered  for  the  ceremony,  but  they 
are  withering  like  poor  Mary: — let  me  crown 
thee,  father,  like  the  angels,  with  these  faded 
rosebuds  ; — but  theirs  fade  not,  because  they  are 
immortal :  how  well  this  rose  becomes  your  fore- 


head — but  roses  wither  if  lying  on  the  snow." 
Her  father  and  William  stood  with  their  arms 
clasped  round  her :  and  it  was  not  until  measures 
had  been  taken  to  restore  her  recollection  by 
repose,  and  some  weeks  had  transpired  to  pre- 
pare her  for  the  intelligence,  that  William  re- 
lated the  reasons  of  his  past  conduct. 

It  appeared  that  he  had  commenced  the  voy- 
age in  obedience  to  his  father ;  but  that  self- 
reproaches,  for  thus  leaving  Mary,  urged  him  to 
return  with  the  pilot-boat,  and  secretly  wait  the 
departure  of  another  vessel.  Dreading  his  fa- 
ther's anger,  and  fearing  to  be  seen  by  any  of  his 
friends,  he  hired  an  obscure  lodging  within  a 
few  miles  of  Mr.  Linden's  cottage.  He  after- 
wards resolved  upon  an  interview  with  Mary ;  but 
he  was  restrained  by  the  necessity  of  a  full  dis- 
closure of  his  misery,  and  the  possibility  of  being 
recognised  and  reported  to  his  father.  Several 
times  of  an  evening  he  would  privately  approach, 
and  venture  to  serenade  the  cottage.  Once,  per- 
ceiving Mary  alone,  he  determined  to  approach 
her;  but  disappointed  at  her  abrupt  flight,  he 
attributed  her  conduct  to  contempt  of  his  ne- 
glect, little  dreaming  of  the  suspicions  respect- 
No.  II.— 4 


ing  his  death,  and  the  deep  melancholy  that  was 
preying  on  the  family.  With  mortified  pride,  he 
determined  to  gratify  his  father's  wishes,  and 
proceed,  disguised,  to  India  in  the  very  next  ves- 
sel. After  suffering  there  two  years  the  pangs 
of  separation,  he  was  called  home  by  the  death 
of  his  father,  who  vested  in  William's  possession 
all  his  immense  estate.  He  had  visited  the  cot- 
tage that  morning  to  claim  Mary's  hand,  and 
atone,  if  possible,  for  his  singular  past  neglect. 
Surprised  to  learn,  at  the  village,  that  Mr.  Linden's 
property  was  exposed  to  sale,  he  immediately  has- 
tened to  stop  the  proceedings,  and  consummate 
as  soon  as  possible  his  nuptials  with  Mary. 

Her  mind  and  countenance  soon  recovered 
their  former,  vivacity.  I  passed  through  the 
village  a  few  days  ago,  and  learned  that  the 
happy  couple  were  united,  and  were  residing  on  a 
charming  seat  on  the  banks  of  the  Hudson  river. 
The  aged  Mr.  Linden  had  lately  deceased.  The 
little  cottage  was  yet  desolate — the  arbour  had 
entirely  fallen — its  vine  was  dead — and  nothing 
enlivened  the  ruins,  but  the  mill-seat  that  was 
still  there.  Enjoying  an  ample  fortune,  a  nume- 
rous offspring,  and  the  society  of  an  affectionate 
acquaintance,  William  and  Mary  Clifford  were 
comparatively  happy. 


THE    HIGHLAND   BANDITTI, 

[BY  THE  LITTLE  MAN  IN  BLACK.] 
"  Who's  there  ?"— SHAKSPEARE. 


I  VISITED,  some  years  ago,  a  few  friends  in  the 
Highlands  of  Putnam  county,  being  some  of  the 
wildest  scenery  in  any  part  of  the  United  States. 
They  are  a  rude,  mountainous  tract,  seemingly 
parted  by  some  physical  convulsion,  sinking  and 
swelling  into  the  most  grotesque  varieties,  frown- 
ing on  each  other  from  opposite  sides  of  the 
river ;  sometimes  blocking  it  up  in  their  awful 
shade,  and  at  others,  haughtily  enclosing  it  in  a 
narrower  channel.  No  one  would  suppose  that 
highly  cultivated  farms  could  be  found  in  glens  so 
seemingly  barren ;  but  Providence  has  provided 
here  roses  in  the  midst  of  thorns,  and  blessings 
amid  the  frowns  of  desolation.  I  left  New-York 
about  sunset ;  and  after  passing  the  rugged  pa- 
lisades, the  gloom  of  evening  gathered  round  the 


60 

landscape,  and  wrapped  every  object  in  misty 
uncertainty.  I  would  often  mistake  the  signal 
lamp  of  a  steamboat  for  a  light  on  some  distant 
eminence — then  the  river  would  seem  hemmed 
in  by  bold  promontories,  and  headlands — fre- 
quently I  would  forget  the  course  of  the  vessel, 
and  then  I  was  bewildered  in  changing  the  point 
of  starting  with  the  place  of  destination. 

After  repeated  inquiries,  the  little  bell  an- 
nounced the  signal  of  arrival.  I  leaped  into  the 
boat,  that  rushed  noisily  through  the  water; 
while  the  paddles  of  the  steamboat  suspended 
their  labour,  and  the  liberated  steam  resounded 
in  shrill  echoes  from  the  hills.  1  sprang  on  shore, 
and  the  boat  was  gone.  But  where  were  my 
friends  who  were  to  meet  me  on  the  bank? 
They  must  either  have  forgotten  their  promise, 
or  I  was  landed  at  the  wrong  point.  I  felt  really 
alone ;  for  I  was  in  a  strange  place,  and  without 
the  sight  of  a  single  living  creature.  But  where 
was  the  road  ?  I  saw  nothing  but  the  steep  sides 
of  a  shaggy  hill,  which  was  washed  from  below 
by  the  moaning  river.  What  must  be  done  ?  It 
was  dead  midnight ;  the  moon  had  not  risen ;  the 
stars  yielded  but  a  faint  light :  no  sound  was 


61 

audible,  but  the  signal  tappings  of  a  drum  heard 
occasionally  from  the  opposite  point,  and  the 
roar  of  some  distant  cascade  sounding  fearfully 
along  the  valleys.  I  was  environed  by  dusky 
eminences,  whose  shade  only  served  to  bring 
them  nearer,  and  no  mode  of  liberation  appear- 
ed, but  finding  some  passage  through  their  wind- 
ings. I  hailed  some  sloops  that  were  floating 
down  the  tide,  but  no  one  heeded  the  call — 
the  next  breeze  and  they  were  swept  from  view. 
I  hallooed,  but  no  one  answered  but  the  mocking 
points,  and  the  noise  of  some  snakes  or  creatures 
I  had  disturbed,  creeping  more  securely  into  their 
dens.  After  clambering  up  the  hill,  I  searched, 
if  possible,  for  some  egress  from  the  fastness ; 
but  I  only  saw  loftier  mountains,  and  lengthening 
forests  beyond,  that  threatened  for  the  night  to 
detain  me  a  prisoner.  The  hill  swept  down  a 
circuitous  valley,  washed  by  a  filthy  streamlet, 
causing  me  to  sink  several  inches  at  every  step, 
and  sending  forth  a  brawling  laugh  as  if  in 
triumph  at  my  slavery.  What  was  to  be  done  ? 
I  was  literally  swamped — my  boots  were  ruined 
by  friction  among  the  rocks — I  felt  faint  and 
weary,  and  determined  to  procure  some  asy- 
lum till  the  dawn.  I  found  a  hollow  tree  just 


82 

suited  to  my  purpose — a  mis-shapen  trunk  over- 
grown by  vines  and  underwood,  and  lined  with 
delicious  moss  that  supplied  the  luxury  of  a  pillow. 
Reflecting  on  my  odd  situation,  I  was  disturbed 
by  an  approaching  footstep.  Advancing  from 
behind  the  tree,  it  paused  a  moment  in  sudden 
suspense,  and  resumed  its  pace  more  rapidly  than 
before.  .  I  listened — but  merely  caught  the  hol- 
low hootings  of  an  owl,  that  crept  through  me 
with  dismal  forebodings.  Removing  some  of 
the  branches,  I  saw  two  persons,  apparently  in 
consultation,  and  approaching  at  the  rustling, 
somewhat  nearer  to  the  tree.  "Pshaw!"  ex- 
claimed one,  "  'Twas  only  the  wind  that  blew  the 
leaves !  I'm  sure  I  saw  him !  He  cannot  escape 
us !"  At  the  word  "•  escape,"  the  seeming  clash 
of  swords  struck  one  of  the  branches,  and  a 
severed  twig  fell  to  my  feet  as  a  witness  of  my 
danger.  Though  I  could  have  faced  the  bravest 
enemy  in  an  open  field,  yet  now  I  began  to  play 
the  coward.  They  are  doubtless  banditti,  thought 
I,  prowling  on  these  hills,  and  my  life  may  de- 
pend on  the  closest  concealment. 

At  this  instant  a  flash  of  lightning,  blazing 
upon  the  valley,  and  the  growling  thunder,  an- 


63 

nouuced  a  coming  shower.  Listening  again,  I 
only  heard  the  gentle  flutter  of  branches,  and  the 
hasty  roll  of  oars.  The  scud  was  dimly  unfurling 
its  smoky  froth  from  the  west,  and  the  hills,  light- 
ed with  tremulous  flashes,  rebellowed,  even  to 
the  faintest  reverberations,  the  crashes  of  the 
thunder.  The  wind  from  a  breeze  rose  to  a  vio- 
lent gale.  The  roaring  river — the  pattering  rain 
—the  echoing  thunder  and  wind,  prolonged 
through  the  crags,  were  nothing  compared  to  the 
danger  that  enveloped  me.  To  fly,  might  prove 
instant  death — to  remain,  might  prove  equally 
fatal ;  but  what  resource  was  left  but  to  sell  my 
life  dearly  ?  Grasping  my  cane,  I  prayed  not  to 
be  abandoned  to  the  power  of  banditti,  nor 
allowed  thus  to  perish  untimely  and  unaided. 

The  last  gleam  of  lightning,  playing  on  the 
rocks,  disclosed  the  objects  of  my  alarm,  crouch- 
ing behind  the  shrubbery,  and,  doubtless,  waiting 
for  their  purpose,  at  the  termination  of  the 
shower.  I  passed  moments,  that  seemed  hours, 
in  agonizing  suspense.  The  perspiration  trickled 
from  my  forehead — my  body  felt  the  coldness  of 
the  grave :  and  regarding  myself  as  lost,  I  calmly 
resigned  to  my  fate.  At  length  the  shower 


64 

abated ;  the  spongy  clouds  dispersed  from  the 
heavens,  and  unveiled  the  silver  moon  with  her 
family  of  stars,  enlightening  the  gloomy  scene. 

In  an  instant  the  same  fearful  voice  was  heard 
again  from  the  tree — "  Here  is  indeed  the  very 
fellow  for  whom  we  have  been  searching !" 
Judge  my  emotions  ! — conceive  my  amazement  j 
when  two  men  rushed  upon  me  from  the  bushes  : 
and  as  I  rose  to  meet  them  with  my  uplifted  cane, 
— who  would  believe  it  ? — I  recognised  only  my 
friends,  who,  having  seen  me  land  from  the  point 
below,  had  come  to  find  me,  but  had  been  un- 
luckily prevented  by  the  suddenness  of  the 
shower.  Congratulations  took  place,  at  my  es- 
caping their  canes  mistaken  for  swords;  and 
though  drenched  to  the  skin,  we  tripped  along 
the  valley,  now  no  longer  a  dreary  marsh,  to  en- 
joy the  hearty  delights  of  my  rescue  from  the, 
Highland  Banditti. 


HARY   MNDEN. 

[CONTINUED.] 

Love,  like  od'rous  zephyr's  grateful  breath, 
Repays  the  flower  that  sweetness  which  it  borrow'd. 

MILTON. 

MARY  LINDEN  was  the  flower  of  the  little  vil- 
lage circle.  Like  most  young  females  confined 
to  rural  society  and  enjoyments,  she  knew  little 
of  the  world  beyond  her  native  home,  and  was 
educated  in  the  useful,  rather  than^  the  showy 
accomplishments  of  life.  She  was  not  beautiful, 
but  there  was  a  delicacy  of  form  and  sweetness 
of  countenance,  that  silenced  the  gazing  critic; 
and  such  a  soul  of  meaning  beamed  from  her 
eyes,  that  the  expression  of  her  features  was  en- 
tirely forgotten.  A  disposition  kind,  artless,  and 
enthusiastic,  seldom  fails  to  win  attention  and 
esteem;  and  if  to  be  the  theme  of  conversation 
and  the  confidant  of  friends  are  proofs  of  love, 
then  Mary  was  blest  with  the  affection  of  all 
who  knew  her. 

No.  IT.— l 


Divided  between  their  dutiful  child,  and  their 
liopes  of  heaven,  time  stole  insensibly  away  from 
her  delighted  parents.  They  regarded  her  as 
the  last  and  richest  gift  of  Providence;  they 
wished  to  see  her  happily  married;  and  hoped, 
when  their  declining  sun  should  set,  to  give  her 
that  best  and  holiest  of  gifts — the  dying  parental 
blessing.  There  is  something  peculiarly  inter- 
esting, I  may  almost  say  divine,  in  the  parting 
blessing  of  parents.  Their  life  resembles  an 
odorous  lamp  continually  emitting  a  most  deli- 
cious fragrance;  but  when  the  nourishment  is 
nearly  consumed,  its  last  remaining  drops  com- 
bine, and  with  one  instant  of  brilliancy  pour  out 
their  precious  perfume  to  be  enjoyed  no  more 
for  ever. 

During  one  of  the  visitations  of  the  yellow 
fever  some  years  ago,  when  thousands  were 
flying  in  terror  from  the  city,  a  young  man  of 
the  name  of  Clifford,  fixed  on  a  transient  resi- 
dence near  Mr.  Linden's  cottage.  His  person 
was  delicate,  but  well  proportioned ;  and  his  face 
spoke  forth  such  a  sweet-natured  benevolence, 
that  the  eye  which  encountered  his,  supposed  itself 
beloved.  The  father  of  William  Clifford  was  a 


merchant  of  New-York,  who  never  suffered  his 
ideas  to  stray  beyond  the  bounds  of  speculation. 
His  busiest  care  was  the  converting  of  cents 
into  dollars,  and  beholding  his  son  elegantly 
settled  in  life.  So  devoted  was  he  to  business, 
that  he  had  no  time  to  spare  for  the  relaxations 
of  the  country,  and  he  preferred  parting  with 
his  son  to  missing  an  opportunity  of  adding  to 
his  fortune.  His  opinions  of  marriage  were  never 
associated  with  the  influence  of  the  blind 
Deity.  "Love,"  he  always  said,  "was  a  mere 
phantom  of  the  brain,  talked  of  like  ghosts, 
which  the  majority  believe  in,  but  which  no  one 
could  assert  he  had  positively  seen.  Even  if  ex- 
isting at  all,  he  can  only  live  under  the  torrid 
zone  of  prosperity,  but  carry  him  to  the  frozen 
regions  of  poverty,  and  the  rascal  freezes  to 
death  in  despair;  but  money  inhabits  all  cli- 
mates, is  adapted  to  all  changes  and  depres- 
sions, and  wherever  there  is  plenty  of  money, 
marriage  will  always  ensure  plenty  of  comfort." 
With  a  parent  of  such  an  opinion,  the  situation 
of  a  daughter  is  truly  pitiable.  Every  warm 
feeling  of  the  heart  must  be  subdued — the  fire 
of  hope  must  be  extinguished — the  blossom  of 
affection  must  be  withered  beneath  the  pesti- 


lential  mildew  of  parental  selfishness.  The 
son  is  more  favourably  situated.  Even  if  suffering 
the  displeasure  of  an  ungenerous  father,  he  can 
seek  in  the  world  for  diversion  from  his  troubles. 
Amidst  the  turmoils  of  business,  he  can  almost 
drown  the  sorrows  that  afflict  him,  and  enjoy  a 
transient  respite  from  the  gallings  of  reflection; 
but  even  through  the  clouds  of  business,  he  will 
often  catch  a  melancholy  view  of  that  glimmer- 
ing light,  which  once  shone  so  beautifully  re- 
splendent. But  what  is  there  for  the  female  ? 
Without  variety,  and  often  condemned  to  the 
imprisonment  of  her  chamber,  she  there  but 
repoisons  her  happiness  with  the  memory  of 
sorrow,  and  drives  in  more  deeply  the  arrow 
that  is  rankling  in  her  bosom.  The  paradise  of 
home  is  changed  to  a  loathsome  dungeon,  where 
she  is  refused  what  is  allowed  the  criminal — the 
sympathy  of  misfortune.  Each  returning  day 
adds  a  new  link  to  the  chain  which  keeps  her 
from  her  lover,  and  which,  bound  so  firmly, 
threatens  of  its  own  weight  to  tear  out  the 
heart  which  it  enslaves.  She  has  no  visions  of 
happiness,  no  consoling  surmises,  no  bosom 
to  echo  her  distress;  but  she  sits  wrapped 
in  the  spell  a  cruel  parent  has  woven,  and 


rtA 

Jv 

cherishes  a  lianie,  which  slowly  consuming 
her  peace,  can  only  be  extinguished  by  the 
death-damp  of  the  grave.  It  is  not  a  little  cu- 
rious to  observe  on  the  other  hand  the  secrecy 
with  which  faithful  hearts  often  hold  communion. 
The  most  rigid  parents  may  enact  laws,  but 
cannot  always  enforce  them.  A  note  conveyed 
by  an  unknown  hand — an  assignation  to  meet 
at  the  house  of  some  approving  relative — and 
numerous  other  inventions  will  often  cross  the 
lines  in  spite  of  the  most  watchful  sentinel.  The 
ore  of  love  should  be  tried  in  the  furnace  of 
affliction,  for  it  can  only  thus  be  purified  from 
its  dross,  and  its  true  value  known  and  appre- 
ciated. 

Mary  had  just  attained  her  seventeenth  year 
when  William  took  up  his  residence  in  the  val- 
ley. A  trifling  circumstance  soon  made  them 
acquainted ;  for  it  is  surprising  how  little  exer- 
tion it  requires  to  second  the  overtures  of  the 
heart ;  and  on  the  other  hand,  what  insuperable 
barriers  must  be  surmounted  when  the  inclina- 
tion must  be  forced  from  its  channel.  It  was 
at  a  village  party  he  first  saw  her.  She  was 
neatly  attired  in  white,  with  a  simple  pink 


38 

riband  encircling  her  waist,  and  a  small  boquet 
of  flowers  braiding  together  the  bright  chesnut 
curls  that  played  around  her  forehead.  She 
seemed  to  him  like  the  modest  lily  lifting  its 
unassuming  head  above  the  flowers  around  it, 
the  pride  of  its  companions,  but  unconscious 
of  its  superiority.  When  they  parted,  the  lan- 
guage of  their  eyes  spoke  more  eloquently  than 
words.  Young,  artless,  and  confiding,  they  had 
no  object  in  concealing  their  regard :  they  felt 
that  deep-impassioned  fondness  which  lures  the 
young  heart  to  repose,  on  the  downy  pillow  of 
hope.  It  was  unknown  to  his  father  that  Wil- 
liam visited  the  cottage.  Mrs.  Linden  feared 
the  consequences.  She  felt  the  disparity  of 
situation,  the  inequality  of  mental  endowments, 
and  a  thousand  other  objections  which  a  fond 
mother  will  always  urge  in  behalf  of  a  beloved 
child.  Mary  confessed  the  value  of  her  mother's 
opinion,  but  tremblingly  hoped  that  the  issue 
would  be  different.  Their  situations  and  circum- 
stances she  confessed  widely  differed ;  but  there 
was  one  in  which  there  was  no  superiority — they 
loved  each  other.  Love  knows  no  distinctions. 
He  respects  as  much  the  peasant  as  the  prince ; 
and  however  great  the  disparity  in  every  other 


39 

situation,  all  who  kneel  at  his  altar  equally  re- 
ceive his  blessing.  There  is  a  time  of  life  when 
the  passions  are  ardent  and  difficult  of  restraint, 
when  the  heart  is  susceptible  of  every  impres- 
sion, and  like  melted  wax  once  eristamped,  the 
image  must  be  broken  to  be  destroyed.  Thus 
it  was  with  Mary — she  would  trust  every  thing  to 
William — his  very  thoughts  and  language  were 
hers ;  and,  like  the  air  he  breathed,  wherever 
he  went,  her  thoughts  would  instinctively  follow. 

Often  at  sunset,  they  would  stroll  along  the 
Hudson,  and  gaze  together  upon  its  variegated 
scenery: — the  white-sailed  sloops,  deeply  laden 
with  produce,  and  marking,  their  courses  through 
paths  of  silvery  foam — the  distant  palisades 
lifting  their  frowning  heads  above  the  dark 
waves  that  border  them  below — the  passing 
steamboats  flying  on  their  wingy  paddles,  and 
pouring  forth  their  volumes  of  smoke  upon  the 
tranquil  air — the  bright  forests  of  evergreen 
overhanging  the  river,  and  always  smiling,  like 
the  good  man,  as  well  in  adversity  as  joy — the 
lofty  hills  beyond  Tappan,  dark  amid  sunshine, 
and  melting  behind  each  other  into  the  blue  of 
the  distant  sky — the  golden  clouds  piled  upon  the 
west  as  if  they  were  the  garments  of  the  sun 


40 

thrown  off'  at  his  entrance  into  his  chamber — and 
the  foaming  streamlets  escaping  the  thraldom 
of  numerous  mills,  and  paying  their  small  but 
welcome  tribute  to  the  Hudson.  Then  he  would 
amuse  her  by  the  recital  of  the  most  popular 
incidents  of  history,  lead  her  through  the  richest 
fields  of  poetry  and  romance,  and  delineate  so 
happily  the  enjoyments  of  the  future,  that  she 
fairly  revelled  in  the  little  paradise  of  his  crea- 
tion. Often  at  evening,  the  young  companions 
of  Mary  would  assemble  under  the  willow,  and 
amuse  each  other  with  the  passing  incidents  of 
the  village.  Then  they  would  listen  to  the 
sweet  notes  of  William's  flute  as  he  accom- 
panied Mary  in  one  of  his  favourite  songs.  It 
was  the  composition  of  a  friend  long  since 
departed,  and  was  cherished  by  William  as  the 
dearest  memento  of  his  affection. 

-,  • 

Forget  thee  ?  No  ;  I'll  ne'er  forget 
That  joyous  hour  when  first  we  met : 

No,  never,  neve*. 

Our  love  was  like  a  tender  flower, 
That  early  bloomed  in  Flora's  bower ; 
Alternately  sun,  dew,  and  shade, 
With  cheerfulness  bestow'd  their  aid, 
Believing  that  the  flow'r  was  made 

To  bloom  for  ever. 


x         :      8.  »  •»  '•>" 

\»"KW 

\/hil. 
^Jj. . 


II 


True  love  ;s  a.  plant  to  mortals  given. 
To  bloom  on  earth,  but  roots  in  heaven  ; 

It  lives  for  ever. 
A  bird  of  Paradise  that  flings 
Rich  odours  from  its  spicy  wings  : 
A  spark  electric  that  doth  move 
Our  hearts  to  think  on  joys  above : — 
The  breath  of  Deity  is  love 

That  warms  for  ever. 

The  modest  tiow'r  that  sinks  in  death, 
Obedient  to  the  cold  wind's  breath, 

Is  lost  for  ever. 

But  though  it  falls  beneath  the  chill, 
Its  sweetest  perfume  haunts  it  still ; 
And  the  young  heart  that  once  has  knelt. 
Before  love's  shrine,  and  fondly  felt 
Its  icy  pride  in  rapture  melt, 

Forgets  it  never. 

I  saw  thy  Ibnd  and  faithful  heart, 
When  last  we  met  so  soon  to  part. 

For  ever,  ever. 

It  told  of  days  long,  long  gone  by, 
And  pour'd  forth  volumes  in  each  sigh  ; — 
It  spake  a  language  dearly  known 
To  one  whose  heart  was  thine  alone ; — 
Of  a  young  flow'r  just  fully  blown, 

Blighted  for  over 
No.  II.— 2 


The  abatement  of  the  fever  in  the  city,  ren- 
dered it  necessary  for  William  to  return.  He 
knew  that  Mary  loved  him ;  that  in  parting,  the 
fibres  must  be  lacerated,  by  which  their  hearts 
had  grown  together.  He  departed  with  the 
fondest  reciprocation  of  attachment,  and  con- 
tinued for  three  months  secretly  to  visit  the 
cottage.  The  death  of  Mr.  Clifford's  agent  in 
India  required  the  immediate  appointment  of  a 
successor,  and  William  was  selected  to  fill  that 
important  station.  A  dutiful  child  is  not  tempted 
from  his  course  by  the  most  flattering  allure- 
ments. But  how  could  he  part  with  Mary — how 
leave  her  without  an  explanation  of  his  conduct  ? 
But  yet  how  could  he  communicate  it — how  tell 
her,  that  even  in  the  distant  Indies,  she  still  would 
be  dear  to  him — that  the  remembrance  of  their 
mutual  vows  would  alleviate  ^the  pangs  of  ab- 
sence ?  By  some  unknown  means  Mr.  Clifford 
became  acquainted  with  William's  visits  to  the 
cottage.  His  pride  determined  to  prevent  the 
consequences;  and  he  hoped,  by  expediting 
the  voyage  of  his  son,  to  blight  for  ever  the  in- 
tended alliance.  The  next  morning  was  secretly 
appointed  for  William's  departure.  He  was 
about  stealing  a  visit  to  Mary  that  night — to  that 


4J 

clear  object  whom  he  might,  see  again  no  more. 
It  was  about  sunset  when  he  came  into  the  vil- 
lage ;  and  the  last  tinges  of  light,  dressing  out 
Nature  in  a  kind  of  melancholy  glory,  seemed 
emblematical  of  his  own  hopes  gradually  ex- 
piring in  darkness.  A  sudden  melancholy  preyed 
upon  his  feelings — he  thought  he  had  come 
there  for  the  last  time,  although  he  had  no  idea 
of  the  nearness  of  the  separation.  Mary  seemed 
that  evening  more  interesting  than  ever.  She 
spoke  so  kindly,  and  used  so  many  kind  methods 
to  win  him  from  his  dejection,  that  her  very  fond- 
ness tended  rather  to  increase  his  melancholy. 
He  tried  gradually  to  break  the  subject — hinted 
at  the  possibility  of  separation — spoke  of  the 
pangs  of  parting,— and  reassured  her  of  the 
fondest  and  most  lasting  fidelity :  but  he  could 
not  speak  of  his  voyage — but  would  defer  it  till 
another  time,  when  her  heart  would  be  better 
prepared.  Who  can  pourtray  the  feelings  of 
Mary  ?  She  feared  something  dreadful  impended ; 
but  her  fears  served  only  to  unite  more  strongly 
the  chains  of  her  attachment.  There  is  nothing 
more  durable  than  woman's  first  love.  Like  the 
unfailing  stream,  which,  stealing  through  the  re- 
cesses of  the  forest,  secretly  struggles  with  the 


v 

M 
I 

impediments  that  obstruct  its  course,  until  it 
mingles  with  some  other  rivulet  with  which  it 
forms  an  identity ;  but,  however  divided  from  its 
channel,  or  diversified  its  way;  notwithstanding 
the  impossibility  of  attaining  its  destination,  and 
forced  entirely  contrary  to  its  original  course ; 
though  lost  in  perpetual  windings,  and  exposed 
to  the  influence  of  a  scorching  sun,  still  its 
source  in  the  forest  will  always  remain  pure  and 
unchangeable.  They  parted  with  the  solemn 
promise  of  meeting  the  ensuing  evening.  Wil- 
liam took  her  hand,  and  as  he  pressed  it  with  more 
than  usual  earnestness  to  his  bosom,  told  her 
that  nothing  but  death  should  prevent  the  fulfil- 
ment of  his  promise.  On  his  return  home,  he 
learned  the  necessity  of  his  departure  in  the 
morning.  The  vessel  was  prepared — the  com- 
mand of  his  father  was  pressing — he  saw  that 
affection  must  be  sacrificed  at  the  shrine  of  pa- 
rental duty.  The  parting  from  his  family  was 
such  as  might  be  expected — some  tears  were 
shed — and  blessings  bestowed — a  lingering  press 
of  hands — a  last  embrace,  and  he  was  gone.- 

The  afternoon  was  beautiful  in  the  country. 
The  honeysuckle  reposing  against  the  posts  of 


t.* 

the  piazza  breathed  forth  a  delicious  fragrance : 
the  torrent  dashing  from  the  neighbouring  mill- 
dam  sparkled  as  brilliantly  as  ever:  the  birds 
had  never  more  sweetly  serenaded  the  cottage : 
a  fresh  boquet  of  flowers  blushed  most  be- 
witchingly  from  its  China  prison  on  the  mantel  : 
a  fresh  bunch  of  asparagus  was  budding  on  the 
hearth  and  above  the  pictures :  a  pair  of  new 
curtains,  as  white  as  the  driven  snow,  hung  from 
the  windows,  while  on  each  side  a  nosegay  of 
sweet  flowers  concealed  the  nails  by  which  the 
loops  were  supported.  Mary  alone  was  gloomy. 
She  was  meditating  on  the  last  words  of  Wil- 
liam— on  his  wild  air — and  the  possibility  (as  he 
hinted)  of  a  lasting  separation.  What  could  be 
its  meaning  ?  Could  he  be  really  faithless, 
or  was  he  constrained  by  the  cruelty  of  an  un- 
generous father?  The  evening  came — but 
where  was  William  ?  At  every  opening  of  the 
gate — at  every  barking  of  the  dog — at  every  ap- 
proaching step,  the  lovely  sentinel  was  certain  it 
was  her  lover.  She  could  not  sleep :  her  parent? 
were  disturbed  by  terrifying  dreams,  and  woke 
the  next  morning  to  relate  their  apprehensions. 
The  next  evening,  and  a  whole  week  transpired, 
and  ho,  had  not  yet  made  his  appearance.  SP- 


46 

cret  inquiries  were  made  of  him  in  the  city,  but 
his  father  pretended  ignorance ;  and  it  was  im- 
possible to  learn  any  thing,  except  some  vague 
reports,  that  he  had  been  casually  seen,  but  had 
as  suddenly  departed.  He  could  not  have  been 
false,  but  must  either  have  destroyed  himself,  or 
been  accidentally  drowned.  The  villagers  were 
questioned — the  neighbouring  streams  and 
woods  were  searched,  but  not  a  trace  of  him  re- 
mained. A  pocket-handkerchief  was  found 
bearing  the  initials  W.  C.,  with  a  few  torn  papers 
here  and  there  in  the  woods,  and  fragments  of 
writing  that  could  not  be  deciphered.  His  mys- 
terious words  at  parting  struck  poor  Mary  to  the 
heart.  She  believed  him  dead — and,  like  the 
flower  of  the  valley,  she  bowed  resignedly  to  the 
blast  that  withered  the  blossom  of  her  joys. 

A  month  elapsed,  and  yet  no  tidings  of  him 
were  heard.  It  was  reported  by  the  young  vil- 
lagers, that  he  was  seen  sitting  on  the  bank  of 
the  river — sometimes  wandering  along  the  paths 
where  he  loved  to  walk  with  Mary — at  others, 
around  the  cottage — and  the  well-known  music 
of  his  flute  was  heard  of  a  still  evening  near  the 
lake.  One  of  the  rustics  affirmed  that  he  saw 


n 

him,  one  moonlight  night,  upon  the  bridge,  fixing 
a  sepulchral  gaze  upon  the  glassy  waterfall  thun- 
dering by  its  side.  Others  beheld  him  walking 
upon  the  river ;  while  a  few  had  the  folly  to  assert 
they  perceived  him  plunging  down  the  mill-dam, 
and  sometimes  riding  upon  a  fiery  charger,  at 
full  speed  through  the  village.  All  these  stories 
were  sacredly  treasured  up  by  the  superstitious, 
and  had  considerable  effect  in  persuading  the 
cottagers,  that  William  must  be  no  more.  Su- 
perstition is  a  disease  contagious  to  all  ranks  of 
society;  and  they  who  most  sturdily  deny  the 
existence  of  apparitions,  are  the  very  first  prose- 
lytes, when  the  popular  voice  is  in  their  favour. 
If  there  be  a  superstition,  which  may  be  inno- 
cently indulged,  surely  that  which  augments  the 
testimony  of  a  future  state  may  be  allowed,  to 
inspire  those  requiring  such  numerous  incentives 
for  preparation.  To  stories  like  these,  Mary 
herself  was  incredulous,  as  she  could  not  believe 
that  the  happily  departed  would  ever  re-mingle  in 
the  miseries  of  the  world,  and  break  through 
established  laws  for  purposes  so  exceedingly 
futile.  Sitting  alone  one  evening  in  her  cham- 
ber, she  heard  the  mellow  warblings  of  a  flute, 
apparently  issuing  from  behind  the  garden.  She 


48 

listened  a  few  moments,  entranced  by  the  sooth- 
ing melody,  and  almost  fancied  it  was  the  flute 
of  William  playing  its  favourite  air.  It  continued 
but  a  short  time ;  and  although  she  waited  seve- 
ral hours  in  anxious  suspense,  it  was  heard  no 
more  that  evening.  The  family  searched  every 
part  of  the  garden,  but  not  a  creature  was  there, 
and  no  one  had  been  seen  passing  along  that 
way.  Poor  Mary  was  absolutely  confounded, 
and  she  listened  several  evenings  for  a  repetition 
of  the  sounds;  but  she  returned  disappointed, 
and  felt  almost  inclined  to  believe  that  it  might 
be  the  spirit  of  her  lover.  Her  parents  tried  to 
dissuade  her  from  such  a  sentiment,  and  ascribed 
the  music  to  the  echoes  produced  by  the  winding 
hill,  supposing  it  to  proceed  from  some  solitary 
idler,  thinking  of  any  thing  else  but  disturbing  a 
harmless  family.  All  these  observations  little 
tended  to  wear  away  Mary's  impressions.  There 
were  no  tears  or  complaints  to  testify  her  sor- 
rows ;  for  true  grief,  like  decay,  does  its  work  in 
silence,  and  is  only  known  by  the  ruin  it  occa- 
sions. 

At  the  close  of  a    calm   summer  evening, 
enlightened  by  the  golden-faced  mirror  of  the 


49 

harvest  moon,  Mary  was  sitting  under  the  arbour 
of  the  piazza,  contemplating  the  undulations  of 
light   admitted  by  the  trembling  vine-leaves,  as 
they  were  moved  by  the  refreshing  breeze,  that 
was  fanning  the  sultry  air.     All  nature  was  re- 
posing but  the  restless  stream ;  and  no  sound  was 
heard  but  of  a  few  discontented  swallows  con- 
tending with  each  other  for   the  best  share  of 
their  rich  feathered  nest.     Mary's  parents  were 
sitting  in  the  little  hall,  talking  over,  no  doubt, 
the  endearments  of  their  younger  days,  or  looking 
forward  with  concern  to  the  disposal  of  their 
daughter.      Mary    was     humming    her    lover's 
favourite  air,  and  was  listening  to  the  softness  of 
the  echoes  as  they  died  away  from  an  opposite 
eminence.     On  a  sudden  she  heard  the  melting 
notes  of  the   same  flute  which  had   lately  so 
pleased  and  amazed  her.     It  played  a  little  while, 
and  she  was  sure  she  recognised  the  beloved 
air ;  and  then  it  Was  repeated — and  then  it  died 
away  as  if  by  magic.     What  was  her  surprise 
when  she  heard  the  well-known  voice  of  Wil- 
liam singing  these  simple  and  well-remembered 
words : 

The  evening  sky — the  evening  sky — 
How  bright  its  glories  are  ' 

No.  If.— 3 


Exciting  thoughts  of  tilings  that  lie 
Above  yon  radiant  star. 

The  joys  our  spirits  burn  to  know. 

Will  never  here  be  given  ; 
The  fountain  whence  true  pleasures  flow. 

Is  only  found  in  heaven. 

When  we  have  slept  that  dreamless  sleep. 

Which  dearest  hearts  must  sever ; 
O  may  we  wake  no  more  to  weep, 

But  live  hi  smiles  for  ever  '. 

She  felt  that  she  wanted  the  power  to  move. — 
Was  she  mistaken  ?  She  fancied  she  heard  a 
light  step  approaching  from  behind  the  avenue. 
She  was  not  sure ;  but  listening  again,  she  heard 
another,  and  another ;  and  by  means  of  the  soft 
moonlight,  streaming  through  the  leaves,  she 
caught  the  dim  figure  of  a  man  crossing  the 
entrance  of  the  arbour ;  and  just  as  he  reached 
the  spot,  where  the  moonbeams  fell  upon  his 
person,  she  fancied  she  saw  Clifford  with  his 
flute  in  his  hand,  who,  looking  anxiously  round, 
pronounced  the  name  of  "  Mary."  A  faint  dim- 
ness gathered  on  her  sight ;  and  summoning  in- 
stant fortitude,  she  fled  into  the  house  and  in- 


ibrmed  her  parents  of  the  singular  apparition. 
All  their  persuasions  could  not  satisfy  her  of  de- 
lusion :  she  was  sure  she  had  beheld  his  very 
face  and  eye  ;  had  heard  his  own  flute,  voice, — 
and  her  own  name  pronounced  in  the  exact  way 
he  always  accosted  her.  Her  parents  per- 
ceived the  prognostics  of  a  mental  malady; 
and  well  they  might ;  for  the  poor  girl  not  only- 
endured  the  anguish  of  disappointed  love,  but 
feared  she  had  provoked  her  lover's  spirit  to  dis- 
turb her  repose.  She  regarded  this  appear- 
ance as  the  real  token  of  her  William's  death. 
She  began  to  wander  alone  amid  the  scenes 
they  once  frequented,  and  invoke  the  shade  of 
her  departed  lover.  Her  parents  wept  in  silence 
over  the  idol  of  their  hearts  ;  but  tears  are  feeble 
ministers  to  the  grief  of  a  distracted  mind.  A 
few  months  since,  Mary  was  the  delight  of  the 
village ;  but  now — how  altered !  Her  tall,  grace- 
ful form  bent  down  like  a  tender  rose-bud  over- 
charged with  tears;  her  dark  hair  carelessly 
floated  on  her  forehead,  and  parted  in  natural 
ringlets  about  her  snowy  neck.  Her  bright 
blue  eye  had  lost  its  brilliancy;  and  the  rose 
of  her  cheek  had  given  place  to  the  paleness 
of  the  lily.  She  was  beautiful  even  in  mjpfor- 


tune,  like  the  rainbow,  more  lovely  tor  the  cloud 
on  which  it  shines ;  but  her  half-suppressed  words, 
vacant  looks,  and  sudden  smiles  that  occasion- 
ally lighted  her  countenance,  bespoke  the  pro- 
bability of  a  partial  derangement.  Her  mother 
imagining  her  recovery  hopeless,  and  having 
used  every  effort  to  alleviate  her  sorrows,  gave 
herself  up  to  the  canker-worm  of  grief,  and 
died  of  a  broken  heart,  a  martyr  to  maternal  dis- 
appointment. 

The  ways  of  Providence  are  often  dark  in 
domestic  dispensations.  When  we  behold 
the  brightest  sky  overcast  by  the  darkest  clouds ; 
or  view  the  placid  stream  raised  to  an  inun- 
dation by  its  innumerable  sources;  we  ac- 
knowledge that  the  fertility  of  the  plain  is  the 
necessary  accompaniment,  and  we  wonder  no 
more  at  the  singular  calamity.  But  when  we 
contemplate  pecuniary  misfortunes  palsying  the 
arm  of  industry,  or  the  poison  of  disease  wasting 
away  the  pride  of  health  and  beauty — when  we 
survey  the  havoc  occasioned  by  the  last  enemy 
of  man,  and  weep  over  the  precious  buds  and 
fruits  that  have  been  blighted  or  swept  away  by 
the  tempest,  why  can  we  not  perceive  an  over-. 


53 

ruling  Providence  here,  enriching  and  maturing 
the  heritage  of  the  moral  world?  "  For  as  some 
medicines  are  healing  to  the  stomach  which  are 
bitter  to  the  palate;  and  as  it  is  by  bruising 
and  dividing  its  particles  that  cinnabar  assumes 
a  vivid  brilliancy,  and  thence  becomes  vermilion ; 
so,  by  the  storms  and  trials  of  an  adverse  for- 
tune, patience  exalts  itself  into  resignation,  and 
resignation  into  gratitude." 

With  the  depression  of  his  spirits,  sunk  also 
the  father's  stimulus  for  industry.  He  was  no 
longer  seen  turning  up  the  mellow  soil  of  his 
farm.  The  garden  became  overrun  with  weeds  ; 
and  every  object  assumed  a  wild  and  desolate 
appearance,  as  if  its  inhabitants  had  long  since 
deserted  it.  The  debts  of  Mr.  Linden  amount- 
ed to  a  considerable  sum:  the  produce  of 
the  farm  was  insufficient  to  liquidate  them  ,- 
and  the  wretched  man  perceived  that  ruin 
would  soon  complete  the  climax  of  his  misfor- 
tunes. He  was  soon  arrested  by  an  officer  of 
justice;  his  goods  were  levied  upon,  and  ad- 
vertised for  sale  the  following  week.  The  blow 
was  indeed  severe,  but  what  should  he  do  with 
Mary?  the  knowledge  of  this  might  break  her 


64 

heart.  She  smiled  when  she  heard  the  particu- 
lars, and  taking  her  father's  hand,  piteously  re- 
plied,— "Toor  father  !  You'll  no  more  have  any 
home — none  to  comfort  you ; — but  I — I  have  a 
home  which  no  one  can  take  away;  William 
gave  it  me.  There — there,  on  that  rock,  beside 
that  weeping-willow  we  will  live  so  happy,  and 
mother  will  come'there  too,  and  William  will  be 
there — I  will  gather  flowers,  and  William  shall 
make  a  wreath  for  your  head,  and  one  for  mo- 
ther's— but  none  for  mine ; — my  hot  brain  would 
scorch  their  pretty  leaves,  and  that  you  know 
were  piteous.  Aye,  and  his  flute — the  little  birds 
will  sit  on  the  branches  over  our  heads  and  listen 
to  his  music — oh  father !  how  pleasant  it  will 
be !"  Her  aged  father  could  not  suppress  his 
feelings :  he  held  his  hand  more  firmly  in  hers, 
while  tears  of  anguish  rolled  down  his  cheeks, 
as  he  said,  "  Yes,  dear  Mary,  we  have  a  home  I 
trust ;  we  have  an  unchanging  home  in  heaven, 
where  I  hope  we  shall  all  meet,  never  more 
to  be  separated."  The  day  soon  arrived  when 
they  were  to  experience  a  severer  trial.  It  was  a 
cloudless  summer  morning,  not  unlike  that, 
when  William  and  Mary  became  acquainted. 
Her  father  had  been  busily  engaged  among  his 


ao 

papers,  while  Mary  was  sitting  in  melancholy 
silence,  surveying  for  the  last  time,  those  domes- 
tic conveniences  which  were  so  soon  to  be  sa- 
crificed. Here  was  her  favourite  dressing-table 
— there  were  her  own  pictures,  which  William 
had  taught  her  to  draw — there  the  old-fashioned 
bureau  and  chairs,  rendered  doubly  dear  because 
prized  by  her  late  affectionate  mother.  There 
is  something  inexpressibly  painful  in  parting  with 
those  moveables  with  which  we  have  been  fa- 
miliar from  our  infancy.  It  is  like  separating 
from  the  very  friends  of  our  bosom — we  feel  as 
if  we  were  cast  once  more  upon  a  desolate 
world,  and  we  realize  the  uncertainty  of  our  pil- 
grimage condition. 

The  officer  had  already  commenced  the  per- 
formance of  his  duty,  and  was  offering  for  sale 
the  first  article — Mary's  work-table — when  a 
figure  at  a  distance  was  seen  approaching 
the  arbour ;  and,  hearing  the  voice  of  the  auc- 
tioneer, he  stood  suddenly  still,  as  if  desirous  of 
listening  to  the  proceedings.  His  countenance 
bore  an  exact  similitude  to  Clifford's ;  but  it  was 
pale  and  worn  down  by  trouble,  and  unlike  that, 
which,  two  years  ago,  appeared  so  fresh  and 


• 


at} 

blooming.       At    repeating    the    name    of    the 
article,  the   company  was    interrupted    by  the 
forbidding  voice   of    the     stranger — "  Forbear1 
— forbear !"     "  'Tis  Clifford's  ghost,"  cried  seve- 
ral of  the  wondering  multitude,  and  shrunk  back 
from  the  door  in  terror.     "  I  am  flesh  and  blood,'" 
replied  William, "  and  am  come  to  relieve  this 
family  from    ruin. — Minister    of    justice,   take 
this  purse    and  leave   us,  or  by   my  existence 
you  shall  feel  the  vengeance,  your  cruelty  de- 
serves."    The  villagers  fled  away  from  what  they 
considered  an  apparition,  and  left  the  family  alone 
with  the    agitated  Clifford.     Mary  gazed  upon 
him — then  upon  her  father — a  vacant  smile  play- 
ed upon  her  features.   She  looked  again,  and  with 
her  hands  over  her  face  exclaimed, — "  take  him 
away — take  him  away — he's  an  impostor; — he's 
not  William — my  William's  dead — he  would  de- 
ceive you."     He  affectionately  approached  her  t 
— "  Touch  me  not,"  she  added — "  do  you  not  see 
these  flowers  ?  they  were  gathered  for  the  cere- 
mony, but  they  are  withering  like  poor  Mary : — let 
me  crown  thee,  father,  like  the  angels,  with  these 
faded  rosebuds; — but  theirs  fade  not,  because 
they  are  immortal :  how  well  this  rose  becomes 
your  forehead — but   roses   wither  if  lying   on 


67 

the  snow."  Her  father  and  William  stood  with 
their  arms  clasped  round  her;  and  it  was  not 
until  measures  had  been  taken  to  restore  her  re- 
collection by  repose,  and  some  weeks  had  trans- 
pired to  prepare  her  for  the  intelligence,  that 
William  related  the  reasons  of  his  past  conduct. 

It  appeared  that  he  had  commenced  the 
voyage  in  obedience  to  his  father ;  but  that  self- 
reproaches  for  thus  leaving  Mary,  urged  him  to 
return  with  the  pilot-boat,  and  secretly  wait  the 
departure  of  another  vessel.  Dreading  his 
father's  anger,  and  fearing  to  be  seen  by  any  of 
his  friends,, he  hired  an  obscure  lodging  within  a 
few  miles  of  Mr.  Linden's  cottage.  He  after- 
wards resolved  upon  an  interview  with  Mary ;  but 
he  was  restrained  by  the  necessity  of  a  full  dis- 
closure of  his  misery,  and  the  possibility  of  being 
recognised  and  reported  to  his  father.  Several 
times  of  an  evening  he  would  secretly  approach, 
and  venture  to  serenade  the  cottage.  Once  per- 
ceiving Mary  alone,  he  determined  to  approach 
her;  but  disappointed  at  her  abrupt  flight,  he 
attributed  her  conduct  to  contempt  of  his  neg- 
Ject,  little  dreaming  of  the  suspicions  respect- 
ing his  death,  and  the  deep  melancholy  that 
was  preying  on  the  family.  With  mortified 

No.  IL— 4 


pride,  he  determined  to  gratify  his  father's  wishes- 
and  proceed  disguised  to  India  in  the  very  next 
vessel.  After  suffering  there  two  years  the 
pangs  of  separation,  he  was  called  home  by  the 
death  of  his  father,  who  vested  in  William's  pos- 
session all  his  immense  estate.  He  had  visited  the 
cottage  that  morning  to  claim  Mary's  hand,  and 
atone,  if  possible,  for  his  singular  past  neglect. 
Surprised  to  learn,  at  the  village,  that  Mr.  Linden's 
property  was  exposed  to  sale,  he  immediately  has- 
tened to  stop  the  proceedings,  and  consummate 
as  soon  as  possible  his  nuptials  with  Mary. 

Her  mind  and  countenance  soon  recovered 
their  former  vivacity.  I  passed  through  the 
village  a  few  days  ago,  and  learned  that  the 
happy  couple  were  united,  and  were  residing  on  a 
charming  seat  on  the  banks  of  the  Hudson  river. 
The  aged  Mr.  Linden  had  lately  deceased.  The 
little  cottage  was  yet  desolate — the  arbour  had 
entirely  fallen — its  vine  was  dead — and  nothing 
enlivened  the  ruins,  but  the  mill-seat  that  was 
still  there.  Enjoying  an  ample  fortune,  a  nume- 
rous offspring,  and  the  affection  of  numerous 
acquaintance,  William  and  Mary  Clifford  were- 
comparatively  happy. 


THE  HIGHLAND  BANDITTI. 

(BY    THE    LITTLE    MAN    IN    BLACK.] 


Who  's  there?"— -SHAKSPEARE, 


I  VISITED,  some  years  ago,  a  few  friends  in  the 
Highlands  of  Putnam  county,  being  some  of  the 
wildest  scenery  in  any  part  of  the  United  States. 
They  are  a  rude,  mountainous  tract,  seemingly 
parted  by  some  physical  convulsion,  sinking  and 
swelling  into  the  most  grotesque  varieties,  frown- 
ing on  each  other  from  opposite  sides  of  the 
river ;  sometimes  blocking  it  up  in  their  awful 
shade,  and  at  others  haughtily  enclosing  it  in  a 
narrower  channel.  No  one  would  suppose  that 
highly  cultivated  farms  could  be  found  in  glens  so 
seemingly  barren ;  but  Providence  has  provided 
here  roses  in  the  midst  of  thorns,  and  blessings 
amid  the  frowns  of  desolation.  I  left  New-York 
about  sunset :  and  after  passing  the  rugged  pa- 


lisades,  the  gloom  of  evening  gathered  round  the 
landscape,  and  wrapped  every  object  in  misty 
uncertainty.  I  would  often  mistake  the  signal 
lamp  of  a  steamboat  for  a  light  on  some  distant 
eminence — then  the  river  would  seem  hemmed 
in  by  bold  promontories,  and  headlands — fre- 
quently I  would  forget  the  course  of  the  vessel, 
and  then  I  was  bewildered  in  changing  the  point 
of  starting  with  the  place  of  destination. 

After  repeated  inquiries,  the  little  bell  an- 
nounced the  signal  of  arrival.  I  leaped  into 
the  boat,  that  rushed  foamingly  through  the  water ; 
while  the  paddles  of  the  steam-boat  suspended 
their  labour,  and  the  liberated  steam  resound- 
ed in  shrill  echoes  from  the  hills.  I  sprang  on 
shore,  and  the  boat  was  gone.  I  felt  really  alone, 
for  I  was  in  a  strange  place,  and  without  the  sight 
of  a  single  living  creature.  But  where  was  the 
road?  I  saw  nothing  but  the  steep  sides  of 
a  shaggy  hill,  which  was  washed  from  below 
by  the  moaning  river.  What  must  be  done?  It 
was  dead  midnight ;  the  moon  had  not  risen ;  the 
stars  yielded  but  a  faint  light:  no  sound  was 
audible,  but  the  signal  tapping's  /  of  a  drum 
heard  occasionally  from  the  opposite  point. 


and  the  roar  of  some  distant  cascade  sounding 
fearfully  along  the  valleys.  I  was  environed 
by  dusky  eminences,  whose  shade  only  served  to 
bring  them  nearer,  and  no  mode  of  liberation 
appeared,  but  finding  some  passage  through 
their  windings.  I  hailed  some  sloops  that 
were  floating  down  the  tide,  but  no  one  heed- 
ed the  call — the  next  breeze  and  they  were 
swept  from  view.  I  hallooed,  but  no  one  an- 
swered but  the  mocking  points,  and  the  noise  of 
some  snakes  or  creatures  I  had  disturbed,  creep- 
ing more  securely  into  their  dens.  After  clam- 
bering up  the  hill,  I  searched,  if  possible,  for 
some  egress  from  the  fastness;  but  I  only  saw 
loftier  mountains,  and  lengthening  forests  beyond, 
that  threatened  for  the  night  to  detain  me  a  pri- 
soner. The  hill  swept  down  a  circuitous  valley, 
washed  by  a  filthy  streamlet,  causing  me  to  sink 
several  inches  at  every  step,  and  sending  forth  a 
brawling  laugh  as  if  in  triumph  at  my  slavery. 
What  was  to  be  done  ?  I  was  literally  swamped 
— my  boots  were  ruined  by  friction  among  the 
rocks — I  felt  faint  and  weary,  and  determined  to 
procure  some  asylum  till  the  dawn.  I  found  a 
hollow  tree  just  suited  to  my  purpose — a  mis- 
shapen trunk  overgrown  by  vines  and  underwood. 


and  lined  with  delicious  moss  that  supplied  the 
luxury  of  a  pillow.  Reflecting  on  my  odd 
situation,  I  was  disturbed  by  an  approaching 
footstep.  Advancing  from  behind  the  tree,  it 
paused  a  moment  in  sudden  suspense,  and  re- 
sumed its  pace  more  rapidly  than  before.  I 
listened — but  merely  caught  the  hollow  hootings 
of  an  owl,  that  crept  through  me  with  dismal 
forebodings.  Removing  some  of  the  branches. 
I  saw  two  persons,  apparently  in  consultation, 
and  approaching,  at  the  rustling,  somewhat  nearer 
to  the  tree.  "  Pshaw !"  exclaimed  one,  "  'Twas 
only  the  wind  that  blew  the  leaves !  I'm  sure  I 
saw  him !  He  cannot  escape  us! !"  At  the  word 
;t  escaped,"  the  seeming  clash  of  swords  struck 
one  of  the  branches,  and  a  severed  twig  fell  to 
my  feet  as  a  witness  of  my  danger.  Though  I 
could  have  faced  the  bravest  enemy  in  an  open 
field,  yet  now  I  began  to  play  the  coward.  They 
are  doubtless  banditti,  thought  I,  prowling  on 
these  hills,  and  my  life  may  depend  on  the  closest 
concealment. 

At  this  instant  a  flash  of  lightning,  blazing 
upon  the  valley,  and  the  growling  thunder,  an- 
nounced a  coming  shower.  Listening  again.  I 


#3 

only  heard  the  gentle  flutter  of  branches,  and  the 
hasty  roll  of  oars.  The  scud  was  dimly  unfurling 
its  smoky  froth  from  the  west,  and  the  hills,  light- 
ed with  tremulous  flashes,  rebellowed,  even  to 
the  faintest  reverberations,  the  crashes  of  the 
thunder.  The  wind  from  a  breeze  rose  to  a 
violent  gale.  The  roaring  river — the  pattering 
rain — the  echoing  thunder  and  wind,  pro- 
longed through  the  crags,  were  nothing  com- 
pared to  the  danger  that  enveloped  me.  To  fly, 
might  prove  instant  death — to  remain,  might 
prove  equally  fatal ;  but  what  resource  was  left 
but  to  sell  my  life  dearly  ?  Grasping  my  cane,  I 
prayed  not  to  be  abandoned  to  the  power  of  ban- 
ditti, nor  allowed  thus  to  perish  untimely  and  un- 
aided. 

The  last  gleam  of  lightning,  playing  on  the 
rocks,  disclosed  the  objects  of  my  alarm,  crouch- 
ing behind  the  shrubbery,  and,  doubtless,  waiting 
for  their  purpose,  at  the  termination  of  the 
shower.  I  passed  moments,  that  seemed  hours, 
in  agonizing  suspense.  The  perspiratipn  trickled 
from  my  forehead — my  body  felt  the  coldness  of 
the  grave ;  and  regarding  myself  as  lost,  I  calmly 
resigned  to  my  fate.  At  length  the  shower 


(54 

abated:  the  spongy  clouds  dispersed  from  the 
heavens,  and  unveiled  the  silver  moon  with  her 
family  of  stars,  enlightening  the  gloomy  scene. 
In  an  instant  the  same  fearful  voice  was  heard 
again  from  the  tree — "  Here  is  indeed  the  very 
fellow  for  whom  we  have  been  searching!" 
Judge  my  emotions ! — conceive  my  amazement ! 
when  two  men  rushed  upon  me  from  the  bushes  ; 
and  as  I  rose  to  meet  them  with  my  uplifted  cane, 
— who  would  believe  it  ? — I  recognised  only  my 
friends,  who,  having  seen  me  land  from  the  point 
below,  had  come  to  find  me,  b*ut  had  been  un- 
luckily prevented  by  the  suddenness  of  the 
shower.  Congratulations  took  place,  at  my  es- 
caping their  canes  mistaken  for  swords;  and 
though  drenched  to  the  skin,  we  tripped  along 
the  valley,  now  no  longer  a  dreary  marsh,  to 
enjoy  the  hearty  delights  of  my  rescue  from  the 
Highland  Banditti. 


THE  COUNTRY  CLERGYMAN, 


c:  Remote  from  town,  he  ran  his  godly  race, 
Nor  e'er  had  chang'd,  nor  wish'd  to  change  his  place." 

GOLDSMITH. 


I  HAVE  always  thought,  that  a  country  clergy- 
man, whose  habits,  associations,  and  interests 
are  identified  with  his  people,  whose  simple  aim 
is  to  be  useful,  and  devoted  to  his  family  and 
flock,  is  a  model  not  only  of  pious  simplicity,  but 
of  what  the  sacred  character  ought  to  be  in 
every  situation  in  the  church.  His  residence  is 
peculiarly  congenial  to  his  profession.  The  con- 
tinual observation  of  pure  skies,  and  healthful  sun- 
shine— the  calm,  composing  quiet  disturbed  only 
by  the  song  of  the  birds,  or  the  lowing  of  the 
cattle — the  contemplation  of  nature  in  her  soft- 
est and  wildest  attire,  with  all  that  can  charm  by 

beauty,  or  solemnize  by  frowns — the  mingling  with 
No.  Ill— 1 


66 

the  poorer  classes  of  people  who  respect  tht; 
counsel  of  clergymen,  and  enter  with  all  the  soul 
into  their  feelings — the  simplicity,  the  retiredness, 
the  adaptation  in  short  of  rural  scenes,  habits, 
and  pursuits  to  clerical  knowledge,  purity,  and 
usefulness,  render  their  situation,  in  my  estima- 
tion, delightful  and  enviable. 

I  know  a  country  clergyman,  the  original  of 
this  picture.  Settled  many  years  at  a  neighbour- 
ing village,  in  the  first  parish  of  which  he  has 
had  the  charge,  he  has  seen  many  of  the  middle- 
aged  becoming  gray  under  his  ministry,  and  a 
large  portion  of  the  young  grown  up  or  married, 
regarding  him  with  the  purest  respect  and  most 
filial-like  affection.  He  is  repeatedly  consulted 
in  matters  of  advice,  even  by  the  elders  of  his 
flock,  who  frequently  come  miles  for  that  pur- 
pose, and  scarcely  ever  a  difference  happens,  but 
he  is  the  arbiter  of  the  dispute,  which  generally 
ends  in  the  warmest  reconciliation.  Two  ladies 
of  his  communion  so  far  indulged  their  resent- 
ment, that  they  would  not  accost  each  other  when 
meeting;  and  their  mutual  revilings  had  been 
long  the  theme  of  the  village  conversation :  but 
at  the  second  visit,  of  their  pastor,  they  consented 


to  meet  arid  confess  their  folly.  It  was  delightful 
to  see  them  approach  the  altar  the  following 
Sunday,  and  pledge  their  forgiveness  over  the 
sacred  elements.  It  was  indeed  the  triumph  of 
love  over  the  bitterness  of  hatred.  Like  the 
grains  of  the  holy  bread  uniting  into  one  mass, 
and  the  clusters  of  many  vines  mingling  in  the 
same  element,  their  hearts  were  knit  together  in 
Ihe  firmest  affection. 

There  is  nothing  very  striking  in  the  appear- 
ance of  my  friend.  He  is  uncommonly  plain  in 
his  costume  and  manners,  and  one  would  natu- 
rally wonder  what  rendered  him  so  beloved. 
But  the  only  secret  is — He  is  a  good  man — free 
from  ail  that  assumed  politeness  taught  by  fashion 
rather  than  the  heart,  from  all  that  finesse  and 
scheming  policy  which  varnish  loftier  names,  in- 
tent only  upon  the  happiness  of  his  own  flock 
and  family,  and  no  farther  versant  with  the  world 
than  their  interest  and  comfort  are  concerned. 
He  was  never  heard  speaking  to  the  detriment 
of  any  one,  and  of  all  the  opinions  he  had  ex- 
pressed of  his  clerical  brethren,  he  was  never 
known  to  lisp  the  least  unfavourable  sentiment. 
He  always  thought,  that  as  the  most  finished  por- 


trait  exhibits,  in  unfavourable  light,  but  blemishes 
to  the  eye,  so  the  virtues  of  the  best,  unpropitiously 
viewed,  may  bear  the  aspect  of  vices,  and  their 
infirmities,  virtues  of  no  ordinary  degree.  Parti- 
cularly fond  of  books,  he  would  treasure  up  every 
theological  rarity  with  miserly  fondness,  and  no- 
thing would  detain  him  from  his  study,  but  the 
cultivation  of  his  garden,  the  visitation  of  the 
concerned,  the  afflicted,  or  the  dying.  He  was 
extremely  attached  to  children,  and  wherever  he 
went,  the  little  ones  would  leave  their  parents  to 
fondle  upon  his  knees ;  and  his  approach  was 
always  notified  to  the  family  by  their  rejoicing 
around  the  door.  He  had  a  catechetical  class 
of  interesting  little  lambs  who  met  for  recitation 
every  Saturday  afternoon  at  his  house,  and  after 
amusing  themselves  in  playful  festivity  about  his 
cooling  enclosure,  they  were  often  dismissed  with 
little  books,  as  a  reward  for  their  diligence.  He 
was  always  in  the  habit  of  making  them  holy  day 
presents,  and  these  operated  as  a  motive  to  their 
good  behaviour  at  home,  and  served  more  than 
the  harshest  threats  to  keep  them  still  during  the 
service  of  the  church. 

Once  a  year  the  families  of  the  congregation 


convene  at  his  house,  not  only  for  the  purpose  of 
bestowing  the  tokens  of  their  liberality,  but  mani- 
festing the  affection  of  both  pastor  and  people. 
These  parties,  termed  "  Spinning  bees,"  bring  to- 
gether numbers  who  can  but  seldom  attend 
church,  associate  families  otherwise  strangers  to 
each  other,  and  tend  to  cement  a  family-like  es- 
teem among  all  the  members  of  the  flock.  Here 
the  young  mingle  in  isolated  groups,  and  indulge 
in  sportive,  innocent  amusement — there  the  more 
advanced  talk  over  their  past  adventures,  or 
stimulate  each  other  in  the  path  that  leads  to 
heaven.  Even  those  of  other  denominations  fre- 
quent this  festival  of  my  friend,  and  vie  with  one 
another  in  affectionate  liberality,  as  their  pastors 
associate  on  the  kindest  of  terms,  and  inculcate 
on  their  people  the  same  friendly  feelings.  It  is 
a  picture,  indeed,  illustrating  the  beautiful  decla- 
ration of  the  Psalmist — "  Behold,  how  good,  and 
how  pleasant  it  is,  for  brethren  to  dwell  together 
in  unity !" 

I  am  especially  pleased  with  his  parochial  vi- 
sitations. His  visits  of  courtesy  are  not  filled  up 
with  unmeaning  stories,  calculated  only  to  excite 
foolish  laughter,  but  with  serious  advice,  with 


pleasant  illustrative  anecdotes  adapted  to  the  in- 
struction of  those  whom  he  addresses.  He  en- 
ters not  the  chamber  of  mourning  as  the  cold- 
hearted  formalist,  conning  over  a  lesson  he  had 
previously  learned,  his  countenance  belying  the 
sympathy  he  professes,  but  like  a  member  of  the 
family,  making  the  affliction  completely  his  own, 
and  applying  consolation  in  that  easy,  affectionate 
manner  that  cannot  but  impress  the  listeners 
around  him.  After  every  communion,  it  is  his 
practice  to  visit  the  sick  members  of  his  altar, 
and  afford  them  the  elements  of  their  dying  Re- 
deemer, enabling  them  to  realize  that  Jehovah 
"  makes  their  bed  in  all  their  sickness,"  and  as 
the  "  Shepherd"  of  his  flock,  folds  the  diseased 
ones  in  his  arms. 

My  friend  is  not  remarkably  learned ;  but  his 
mind  is  stored  with  a  fund  of  the  richest  mate- 
rials, which  he  can  draw  at  command  from  the 
well  of  memory,  to  edify  those  who  are  the  sub- 
jects of  his  ministrations.  There  is  sufficient 
fancy  to  enliven  the  attention — sufficient  erudi- 
tion to  avoid  the  air  of  pedantry — and  sufficient 
zeal  to  escape  the  charge  of  fanaticism.  But 
then  there  is  such  a  vein  of  good  sense,  such 


warm  and  practical  treasures  of  divine  truth, 
and  such  pathetic,  forcible  appeals  to  the  heart, 
that  if  he  cannot  rank  as  the  finest  of  orators, 
he  may  be  defined  one  of  the  best  and  most  use- 
ful of  preachers. 

I  lately  visited  him  in  the  house  of  sorrow,  for 
the  very  best  must  drink  of  its  purifying  cup ;  and 
as  affliction,  I  conceive,  is  the  surest  criterion  of 
character,  I  deemed  it  a  favourable  opportunity 
of  testing  that  of  my  friend.  It  was  a  dim  Oc- 
tober afternoon.  The  sky  wore  a  dark  livery  of 
clouds — the  wind  blew  rather  loud  and  chilly — 
the  parti-coloured  leaves  were  eddying  on  its 
wings — the  trees  were  almost  bare,  and  nature 
seemed  in  mourning  for  the  affliction  of  the 
pastor.  He  had  just  closed  the  eyes  of  a  charm- 
ing boy  on  whom  he  had  doted ;  and  no  one  but 
a  parent  knows  what  it  is  to  part  from  the 
dear  little  objects,  who  have,  like  tender  vines, 
clung  and  fastened  themselves  about  the  heart. 
The  door  was  somewhat  ajar  as  I  entered  the 
threshold,  and  I  saw  the  parents  kneeling  in 
prayer  with  two  small  cherub  daughters,  near 
the  coffin  enclosing  the  casket  of  the  departed 
jewel.  The  father  spoke  of  the  pangs  of  separa- 


72 

lion,  occasioned  by  the  monster  Sin — expressed 
his  submission  to  the  divine  will,  invoking  a  sane- 
tification  of  their  sorrows, — but,  oh!  he  dwelt 
longer  on  the  joys  of  restoration,  when  the  tears 
of  parting  should  be  for  ever  wiped  away.  At 
the  close  of  the  prayer,  my  friend  met  me  as  if 
nothing  had  happened,  but  his  tender  companion 
pointed  me  to  the  corpse,  and  then  her  sorrows 
began  to  break  forth  afresh.  "  Nay,  but  my 
love,"  observed  the  feeling  pastor, "  were  heaven 
opened,  and  you  allowed  to  see  your  Henry  with 
a  palm  in  his  hand,  joining  the  song  of  angels, 
all  smiling  and  glorious,  could  you  indulge  a  mo- 
ment's lamentation  ?  Though  his  body  is  cold, 
may  not  his  spirit  be  now  regarding  us,  and  up- 
braiding us  for  shedding  tears  at  the  felicity  of 
his  triumphs  ?  I  heard,"  he  said,  "  of  a  circum- 
stance that  should  afford  consolation.  An  aged 
parent,  in  the  highlands  of  Scotland,  was  deprived 
of  an  only  child.  Neither  his  friends  nor  his 
Bible  could  yield  him  the  least  comfort.  As  it 
was  usual  to  sacrifice  a  lamb  for  the  guests  of  the 
funeral  wake,  the  customary  offering  was  accor- 
dingly preparing.  On  the  evening  before  the 
burial,  while  the  father  was  sitting  disconsolate 
in  his  door,  a  stranger  appeared,  sprinkled  with 


73 

silver  hairs — but  his  face  glowed  with  the  sweet- 
est benevolence,  and  his  pure  mild  eye  denoted  a 
celestial  being.  4  What  lamb,  Sir,'  he  mildly 
demanded,  'is  to  be  slaughtered  for  the  ap- 
proaching wake  ?  Is  it  the  whitest,  and  fattest, 
or  do  you  mean  to  surrender  the  poorest  of  your 
flock?'  'Oh  Stranger,'  replied  the  weeping 
parent,  'your  question  is  too  cruel — on  an  oc- 
casion like  this ;  can  I  fail  to  present  the  fairest 
and  most  valuable  ?'  4  And  yet,'  rejoined  the 
stranger,  4  you  would  withhold  your  child,  thr 
fairest,  and  the  most  valuable  of  your  family, 
from  God.'  The  aged  stranger  vanished  in  the 
evening  mist — but  the  father  was  comforted. — 
And  O  that  we  too  could  receive  similar  consola- 
tion from  the  joyful  surrender  of  the  best  of  our 
domestic  flock !"  The  remains  of  the  dear  bo) 
were  deposited  the  following  day  in  their  sepul- 
chre, and  every  Sunday  morning  before  service, 
the  pastor's  family  may  be  seen  there  a  moment 
in  silent  meditation  over  the  sod,  before  they 
publicly  mingle  in  the  devotions  of  the  sanctuary. 

Several    years    have   rolled    away — and    my 
friend  still  officiates  at  the  little  village  church, 

beloved  by  a  happy  congregation,  who  hope  one 
No.  III.— 2 


74 

day  to  mingle  their  ashes  together.  Both  he  and 
his  companion  have  passed  through  similar  trials 
— sickness  has  worn  away  the  bloom  of  the  pas- 
tor ;  but  the  pride  of  intellect  and  piety  remains 
verdant,  and,  like  the  smiling  evergreen,  vege- 
tates in  snow  as  well  as  sunshine. 

I  have  read  of  divines  whose  philanthropy  and 
learning  have  excited  a  glow  of  enthusiasm — I 
have  listened  to  preachers  who  have  delighted 
with  their  oratory,  or  awed  by  the  masterly 
powers  of  their  intellect — I  am  acquainted  with 
many  clergymen  whose  erudition,  piety,  and  use- 
fulness endear  them  to  my  friendship ;  but  I  know 
of  none  who  more  effectually  wins  my  confidence 
and  love,  than  the  model  of  every  other,  in  my 
humble  estimation,  THE  COUNTRY  CLERGYMAN. 


TRENTON 


Heights,  which  appear  as  lovers  who  have  parted 
In  hate,  whose  mining  depths  so  intervene, 

That  they  can  meet  no  more,  though  broken-hearted. 

BVRON. 


THOUGH  we  have  heard  much  of  the  scenery  of 
Europe, — of  its  meandering  rivers  which  beautify 
and  enrich  the  most  charming  of  valleys — its 
cragged  mountains,  darkening  with  solemnity 
the  surrounding  country — its  swelling  landscapes 
rich  in  architecture,  variety^  and  plenty — its 
smiling  skies  dispensing  health,  serenity,  and 
beauty — and  its  caverns  and  grottos  unsounded 
by  human  plummet,  and  secreting  in  darkness 
their  riches  from  the  eyes  of  man ;  yet  but  few 
Americans  can  visit  this  fairy  land,  and  realize 
the  truth  or  falsity  of  the  picture.  The  poet  and 
painter  have  adorned  it  with  many  a  false  tint 
denied  by  the  hand  of  nature :  and  they  who"  have 


lingered  most  around  its  famous  wonders,  have 
been  surprised  at  enthusiasm  so  unsanctioned  by 
reality.  It  is  a  punishment  worthy  of  those  over- 
looking their  native  country,  and  anticipating, 
like  wayward  children,  purer  delight  from  home. 
But  though  separated  from  the  old  world  by  an 
enchaining  ocean,  yet  the  American  feels  that  he 
has  prouder  rivers  rolling  through  vaster  tracts — 
landscapes  enriched  by  wilder  prospects — skies 
enkindled  by  as  bright  a  sunshine — mountains 
more  lofty,  and  venerable  with  snow — and  grottos 
and  caverns,  if  not  richer  and  vaster,  yet  arousing 
more  the  curiosity  of  the  inquisitive  traveller. 


Whoever  has  visited  "Trenton  Falls"  must 
feel  aware  of  this  truth.  Not  as  at  Niagara,  or 
the  Cohoes,  where  the  purple  sunshine  crowns  the 
boiling  waters  with  rainbows  and  coronas — 
and  where  a  laughing  landscape  relieves  from  the 
frowns  and  thunders  of  the  elements — but  where 
desolation,  solitude,  and  wildness  reign  fearfully 
alone — where  the  gloom  of  nature  never  kindles 
with  a  smile,  and  where  nothing  but  the  roar  of  tor- 
rents, and  the  scream  of  the  mountain  hawk  ar 
ever  known  to  dart  upon  the  ear.  In  descending  by 
a  flight  of  steps  into  this  valley  of  romance,  it  seemc 


like  leaving  the  living  for  the  dead.  The  rapid 
stream  appears  rolling  far  below,  black  with  the 
shadows  of  scowling  hills  and  forests ;  and  occa- 
sionally dim  openings  are  seen,  shaggy  with  rocks 
and  cavities,  and  prostrate  trunks  of  trees.  A  deep 
ravine,  yawning  to  the  view,  seems  the  effect  of 
an  earthquake  tearing  and  dissevering  immense 
masses  of  limestone  apparently  fitted  to  each 
other.  The  Canada  creek,  forced  from  its  pa- 
ternal bed,  and  seemingly  alarmed  at  its  awful 
prison,  nobly  endeavours  to  leap  from  the  rocky 
barriers  to  escape  the  chains  that  are  trying  to 
stop  its  way.  Urging  its  course  about  three 
miles  through  the  windings,  and  toiling  and  strug- 
gling with  the  obstacles  around,  it  finally  unites 
with  its  parent,  the  Mohawk — like  the  troubles 
of  life  terminating  at  last  in  the  home  of  its  de- 
sires. Sometimes  it  gently  whispers  over  smooth 
atones  and  gravel — at  others  it  foams  impetuously 
down  torn,  sharpened  rocks.  Now  it  falls  mur- 
muring in  gentle  cascades — and  then,  storming 
in  all  the  madness  of  thunder,  it  is  hurled  into 
rapids,  whirlpools,  and  eddies,  which  cause  the 
hills  to  complain  of  the  horrors  of  the  war.  Va- 
rious petrifactions  of  shells,  serpents,  and  fishes. 


78 

are  found  imbedded  in  the  limestone  deserted 
by  the  waters,  as  if  the  creatures  congealed  by 
terror  at  the  scene,  became  a  part  of  the  very 
objects  that  occasioned  their  death.  Frequently 
the  visiter  descends  under  black,  projecting 
rocks,  eclipsing  the  mid-day  of  heaven,  and  then 
rises  upon  narrow  eminences  overlooking  fearful 
depths,  from  which  he  is  feebly  upheld  by  the  pro- 
tection of  a  chain.  Often  the  precipices  appear 
to  hem  in  the  valley,  and  then  the  pomp  of  forests 
vies  with  the  sublimity  of  cataracts. — Now  they 
form  a  cragged  wall  for  the  guidance  of  the 
waters,  and  again,  suddenly  breaking,  are  lost 
for  a  season  from  the  view.  Here  and  there  upon 
the  surface  of  the  steep  limestone,  may  be  seen 
the  tender  wild  flower  blooming  midst  desolation, 
like  the  joy  of  memory  springing  in  the  bosom  of 
sorrow ;  while  amid  the  gray  rocks,  hardy  forest 
trees  tower  forth,  reminding  of  fearless  ambition 
threatening  amid  the  terrors  of  death.  To  con- 
template the  gay  who  continually  resort  here, 
gazing  around  them  with  astonished  inquiry — 
balancing  their  steps  for  fear  of  the  yawning  pre- 
cipices, and  often  overpowered  in  bewildered 
silence  by  the  solitude  and  thunder  of  this  dreary 


79 

gulf,  resembles  worldly  pleasure  drowned  in 
noisy  dissipation,  but  feeling  gloom  and  danger 
perpetually  hanging  round. 

I  never  heard  of  a  more  affecting  circumstance 
than  one  which  lately  occurred  here.  A  young 
lady,  the  idol  of  fond  parents,  had  visited  this 
place  in  company  with  a  few  dear  friends.  She 
was  beloved,  affectionate,  and  interesting;  un- 
tainted by  a  world  to  which  she  was  almost  a 
stranger,  and  warmed  with  an  enthusiasm,  that 
paints  futurity  in  the  loveliest  charms.  Glowing 
with  animation,  she  was  fond  of  enlivening  the 
happy  circle  of  her  friends,  and  joining  in  all  those 
innocent  amusements  so  natural  and  agreeable 
to  the  young.  Her  mind  could  either  rise  upon 
the  wings  of  the  poet,  unfurl  the  sail  of  the  tra- 
veller, or  raise  the  veil  of  history  to  trace  its 
shadowy  pictures.  She  had  a  taste  for  the  rich 
melody  of  music.  She  could  mimic  with  her 
pencil  nature's  fairy  scenes ;  and  having  a  romantic 
taste,  she  was  fond  of  wild,  rural  scenery,  where 
the  power  of  God  subdues  the  feeling  heart; 
or  gazing  on  the  softened  landscape,  where  his 
mercy  is  so  beautifully  portrayed.  They  who 
stray  not  beyond  the  din  of  cities,  have  no  idea  of 


80 

the  effects  produced  by  natural  sublimity.  Alone 
amid  the  works  of  God,  the  worldly  heart  throws 
off  its  cloak  of  guile,  and  sees  and  feels  the  awful 
footsteps  that  are  near.  It  hears  him  in  the  thun- 
dering cataract — the  echoing  mountain  and  the 
whispering  forest — views  him  in  the  cooling 
rivulet,  the  swelling  landscape,  and  the  winding 
river ;  all  these  proclaiming  in  "  the  still,  small 
voice"  of  the  breeze — "  If  this  world  is  so  beau- 
tiful— what  must  be  the  grandeur  and  magnifi- 
cence of  heaven !" 

The  lovely  young  lady  had  never  appeared 
more  interesting  and  cheerful,  than  on  the  morn- 
ing of  the  excursion.  She  expressed  an  enthu- 
siastic wish  to  feast  upon  the  scenery,  and  con- 
tinued after  most  of  the  party  to  linger  yet 
longer  around  its  glooms.  Was  it  a  presenti- 
ment of  the  grave  she  was  soon  to  find,  or  a 
melancholy  adieu  to  the  enjoyments  of  the  world? 
Insisting  on  venturing  forward,  she  gayly  tripped 
nearer  the  precipice,  holding  the  arm  of  a  gen- 
tleman, who  expressed  his  fears  of  advancing  to 
the  edge.  It  was  a  bold  projection  of  rock, 
overlooking  the  maddening  waters,  now  thunder- 
ing down  in  broken  cascades,  then  foaming 


81 

below  in  wild  confused  eddies,  and  raging  in 
whirlpools  that  mock  the  opposition  of  man. 
Standing  on  the  dizzy  eminence,  she  was  gazing  on 
the  mountain  forests  beyond,  seemingly  wreathing 
their  branches  in  the  curling  clouds ;  or  she  was 
watching  the  bubbles  and  breaking  spray,  which 
smoked  round  the  basement  of  the  rocks.  But 
whether  it  was  that  her  foot  slipped,  or  the 
tumult  of  the  scene  had  overwhelmed  her  senses, 
certain  it  is — her  companion  looked  wildly 
around,  but,  alas ! — she  was  gone !  His  frenzied 
eye  glared  among  the  rocks,  supposing  she 
had  wandered  behind  some  shadowy  projec- 
tion.— He  called  loudly  upon  her  name — but 
he  saw  nothing  but  her  bonnet  floating  on  the 
rapid  whirlpool,  and  heard  only  the  roaring  tor- 
rent, and  answering  rocks  announcing  her  dying 
knell.  Her  remains  were  soon  found  in  the  deep 
pool,  wearing  the  same  sweet  look,  sustaining 
but  a  slight  bruise,  and  as  the  immortal  spirit  had 
fled,  were  committed  to  their  parent  dust  far 
from  the  home  of  her  childhood.  Bedewed 
with  the  fondest  tears,  her  grave  will  always  be 
a  monument  to  the  young,  thoughtless  visiter,  of 
the  brittleness  of  life's  thread,  and  the  vanity  of 

those    calculations    that   may  so    suddenly  bp 
No.  TIT.— 3 


82 

thwarted.  To  her  this  valley,  indeed,  was  the 
"  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death."  Gay  and  happy 
a  few  hours  before,  she  little  thought  of  exchang- 
ing so  soon  her  parental  home  for  a  tomb  of 
raging  waters.  Who  would  have  dreamed  that 
the  joys  of  the  morning  would  thus  be  quenched 
in  tears — that  the  song  of  health  would  so  shortly 
be  drowned  in  the  notes  of  the  funeral  dirge ! 

What  are  all  the  dreams  of  worldly  pleasure, 
interest,  and  honour,  but  curling  mists  that  play 
around  the  mountain,  dispersing  in  air  at  the 
rising  of  the  sun !  Let  the  gay  consider,  that 
the  flowers  of  Paradise  bloom  not  in  this  world ; 
and  that  no  enjoyment  can  be  lasting,  which 
germinates  not  in  heaven.  Every  hour  reminds 
them,  that  the  fondest  hopes  will  perish — that  the 
richest  treasures  will  fly  away  from  the  heart — 
that  nothing  but  cheerful  piety  can  yield  rational 
pleasure,  and  ensure  everlasting  bliss  beyond  the 
prison  of  the  tomb.  Let  youth,  beauty,  and  strength 
remember,  that  human  life  is  a  descent  into  the 
valley  of  tears ;  and  that  every  step  they  take  is  en- 
vironed with  dangers.  Let  them  taste  their  bless- 
ings with  gratitude  and  trembling,  as  thorns  are 
among  the  blossoms,  and  poison  among  the  fruit 


But  Oh,  let  the  bereaved  take  comfort,  remem- 
bering, that  though  "  God's  ways  are  unsearch- 
able," his  mercy  mingles  in  the  bitterest  cup — 
that  trials  are  requisite  to  purge  the  dross  of 
prosperity,  and  compel  the  heart  to  feel  the 
presence  of  the  Almighty — that  the  greatest 
afflictions  most  effectually  purify  the  soul,  and 
drive  it  nearer  to  its  everlasting  home — that  if 
we  would  wear  crowns  of  triumph  with  the 
piously  departed,  we  must  patiently  suffer,  and 
resign  to  the  dispensations  of  an  all-righteous 
Providence. 

She  has  gone  to  the  home,  where  the  blessed  are  keeping 
Their  watch  over  hearts,  here  in  ignorance  sleeping  ; 
Where  the  soul,  freed  from  earth,  is  resplendently  shining, 
Undimm'd  by  the  clouds  of  an  earthly  repining. 

She  has  gone  to  the  home  of  the  King  of  creation  ; 
A  jewel  to  shine  in  the  crown  of  salvation  : 
That  his  power  and  his  mercy  by  her  might  be  spoken, 
In  choosing  a  gem  from  a  casket  thus  broken. 

She  has  gone  to  her  home, — tender  bud  of  the  morning — 
No  longer  the  garden  of  Beauty  adorning ; 
But  though  in  its  spring-time,  the  floweret  has  faded, 
Tt  blooms  in  the  wreath,  which  the  angels  have  braided 


She  has  goue  to  the  home  that's  untainted  by  sorrow- . 
Where  eternally  rises  a  blissful  to-morrow  ; 
Where  the  joy  so  unbounded  requires  no  addition, 
And  hope  sinks  to  rest  in  the  lap  of  fruition. 

She  has  gone  to  the  blest  home,  whence  none  have  departed : 
The  last,  holy  home  of  the  fond  and  warm-hearted  ; 
Yes,  the  home  where  enjoyment  shall  no  more  be  blighted — 
The  dear,  blessed  home,  where  all  hearts  are  united. 


THE   MONEY  DREAMER. 


'  Dreams  are  like  portraits,  and  we  find  they  please, 
Because  they  are  confess'd  resemblances." 

CEABBE. 


AMONG  the  numerous  vagaries  deluding  tho 
imagination  in  sleep,  it  is  no  wonder  that  some 
should  tally  with  circumstances  about  to  happen, 
as  our  waking  thoughts  have  often  been  the  pre- 
cursors of  corresponding  realities.  They  who 
dream  most,  and  talk  most  about  their  dreams,  are 
the  richest  of  all  in  the  treasury  of  coincidences^ 
and  become  a  sort  of  standing  prophets  to  the  vi- 
sionary world,  which  treasures  up  their  follies,  and 
retails  them  from  age  to  age.  Individuals  have 
dreamed  themselves  more  frequently  rich  than 
poor ;  and  the  reason  is,  because  the  inclination 
in  the  one  case,  excites  to  vigorous  exertion,  and 
nerves,  on  the  other  hand,  the  arm  that  trembles 
at  the  evils  of  poverty.  With  all  their  follies. 


dreams  may  be  providential  instruments,  of  com- 
forting distress,  supporting  despondency,  and  ani- 
mating pious  perseverance  ;  and  again,  they  may 
arouse  the  callous  conscience,  exhibit  the  hate- 
fulness  of  vice,  and  reclaim  to  duty  the  profligate 
offender.  They  who  repose  most  credit  in  dreams 
may  receive  some  benefit  from  the  following 
story. 

A  rich,  old  publican,  fonder  of  drawing  corks 
than  inferences,  and  of  pocketing  cash  than 
insults,  resided  on  a  bend  of  the  great  southern 
turnpike.  He  was  a  singular  genius  that  always 
wore  two  pair  of  small  clothes,  a  white,  circular 
crowned  hat  resembling  an  inverted  punch-bowl, 
and  a  coat  and  vest  that  would  have  done  honour 
to  the  days  of  the  good  old  Antony  Van  Bummel. 
He  was  a  huge  smoker ;  so  that  every  room  in  his 
inn  seemed  coloured  with  yellow  ochre ;  and  his 
pipe,  of  a  clear,  dark  night,  might  be  mistaken  for 
a  signal-light  to  welcome  travellers  to  the  hotel. 
He  had  something  of  a  batchelor-like  appear- 
ance ;  though  he  always  denied  the  fact,  averring, 
that  he  had  buried  his  wife  somewhere  in  the  old 
countries ;  and  no  one  could  doubt  it  from  the 
dismal  effects  that  might  naturally  accrue  from 


87 

such  a  connexion.  He  was  always  fond  of  crack- 
ing a  sly  joke,  and  though  you  could  not  perceive 
the  connexion  of  his  stories,  he  would  shake  your 
sides  at  his  manner  of  telling  them.  Whenever 
a  part  pleased  him,  he  would  lay  his  pipe  on  the 
floor,  roll  a  queer  squint  of  the  left  eye,  and 
stamp  the  floor  with  his  foot,  giving  at  the  same 
time  his  thigh  such  a  slap,  as  defied  the  powers 
of  the  soundest  sleeper.  But  his  ruling  passion 
was  superstition.  He  was  a  singular  believer  in 
tokens,  dreams,  and  hobgoblins  disclosing  ac- 
counts of  buried  money ;  and  he  declared  that 
he  was  no  less  than  a  seventh  son,  entitled 
by  the  law  of  dreams,  to  all  the  benefits  of  the 
birthright. 

It  happened  one  evening,  that  a  hatchet-faced 
fellow  rode  up  to  his  door,  mounted  on  a  poor, 
sorry  mare  almost  tumbling  to  pieces,  with  a  worn 
pair  of  saddle-bags,  apparently  a^  empty  as  the 
beast  which  they  bestrid.  He  had  a  keen,  know- 
ing eye,  a  quick,  restless  air,  denoting  a  turn  for 
business  ;  and  a  droll  mode  of  putting  questions, 
that  trod  so  hard  on  one  another's  heels,  that 
they  might  almost  be  mistaken  for  a  single  de- 
mand. Old  Boniface  eyed  him  with  hurried  puff? 


of  his  pipe ;  and  with  a  sifting  leer  of  his  eye. 
shook  his  white,  arched  beaver  as  if  doubtful  of 
his  customer.  "Why,  zounds!"  cried  the  new- 
comer, "  I've  travelled  these  long  twenty  miles, 
and  dreamed  of  nothing  but  smoking  steaks,  and 
foaming  ale  ;  but  I  see  nothing  but  a  pipe  as  long 
as  my  arm,  and  hear  nothing  but  quarrelling  fowls 
on  the  roost,  which  should  long  ere  this  have 
been  smoking  on  the  gridiron !"  The  old  Ger- 
man shifted  his  head  to  the  other  point  of  the 
compass,  and  smoked  away  in  dogged  sullenness ; 
but  at  the  chink  of  silver  crawling  from  the  new 
customer's  pocket,  there  played  upon  his  lip  an 
old-fashioned  smile  of  welcome.  In  a  trice,  our 
traveller  fared  like  a  prince — quaffed  off  his  ale 
— smacked  his  lips,  and  began  to  talk  seriously  of 
jogging  to  the  land  of  Nod.  "  That's  a  place, 
young  man,  I  never  heard  of  in  these  parts,"  ob- 
served the  softened  landlord,  "except  you  mean 
a  country  spoken  of  by  Moses ;  but  heavy  roads, 
and  dark  clouds,  let  me  advise,  are  but  sorry  ac- 
commodations, of  a  night  like  this."  "Indeed," 
returned  the  stranger, "  then  if  you  will  accommo- 
date me  with  a  boot-jack,  night-cap,  and  candle, 
and  give  me  the  honour  of  following  in  your  wake. 
I  will  inform  you  in  the  morning  of  the  appearance 


of  the  country."  So,  without  more  ado,  he  wa^ 
cooped  up  into  a  low-ceiled,  tobacco-scented 
room,  to  sport  in  the  land  of  Nod  among  the  do- 
mains of  his  somnolent  majesty. 

By  break  of  day,  the  stranger  was  walking  the 
piazza,  looking  rather  meditative  and  solemn, 
eying  his  host  rather  inquisitively,  as  he  drew  a 
chair  within  his  cloud  of  tobacco  smoke ;  and  at 
length  he  thus  broke  the  mysterious  silence — "Are 
you  a  believer  in  dreams?"  The  old  veteran 
ceased  puffing,  resumed  the  charge,  and  regard- 
ing him  with  a  spectral  eye,  replied,  "  It  ill  be- 
comes a  novice  to  ask  me  that  question,  young 
man — Believe  in  them  ? — Humph  !  If  I  had  all 
the  bags  of  dollars  which  my  dreams  have 
brought  to  light,  I  would  not  at  this  day  be  stand- 
ing behind  a  bar."  "  Why,  what  a  providence," 
resumed  the  long-faced  fellow,  "  that  I  should  be 
selected  to  disclose  such  a  mystery  !  To  come 
•to  the  point  then,  my  old  worthy,  I  am  a  seventh 
son,  and  I  had  a  remarkable  dream  last  night." 
"A  dream — and  a  seventh  son,"  muttered  the 
wary  old  German,  shaking  his  head  musingly ; 
"  and  what  proofs  can  you  give  me  of  the  truth 

of  what  you  say  ?"    "  An  honest  tongue,  and  the 
No.  III.— 4 


90 

fulfilment  of  my  dream,"  whined  out  the  younger 
long-face — "  or  no  cure,  no  pay."  "  Enough," 
coughed  out  the  other,  "  but  your  dream — your 
dream."  "I  dreamed  then,"  returned  the  other, 
"that  I  was  walking  in  the  field  behind  your 
barn — have  you  a  barn  ?"  "  To  be  sure  I  have," 
said  the  eager  listener,  pointing,  as  if  the  other 
doubted,  to  its  sloping  roof,  "  but  what  of  the 
field  ?"  "  Why,  then,  I  crossed  a  pair  of  high 
bars — then  through  a  meadow — a  meadow  was 
it  ?  Oh  yes, — and  then  I  came  into  a  dreary  look- 
ing place,  with  a  woods  on  one  side,  and  an  old 
stumpy  tree  on  the  other,  rotting  on  a  mound 
overgrown  with  vines  and  briars — and  the  place 
looked  so  confoundedly  queer  that  I  almost 
wished  myself  awake."  "What  an  inspired 
dreamer !"  muttered  the  gray  hairs  to  himself: 
"  that  was  the  very  place  where  my  predecessor 
was  hanged ; — but  what  then  ?"  "  Why,  as  I  was 
standing  near  the  old  stump,  I  saw  a  strange  figure 
beckoning  me  towards  it ;  and  I  felt  myself  sink- 
ing, and  sinking — till  I  stood  bolt  upright  in  a 
mighty  heap  of  money — and  then  I  said  to  my- 
self, I  heartily  wish  that  I  was  awake  with  all  this 
cash  in  my  saddle  bags  !"  "  But  what  farther  ?" 
«  Why,  nothing ;  for  yonr  twanging  horn  pealed 


91 

Such  a  blast  in  my  ears,  that  I  was  forced  to  leave 
all  behind  me,  and  instead  of  having  the  money 
in  my  pocket,  I  was  only  enabled  to  bring  you  the 
news  of  it."  "  A  dream — a  seventh  son — and 
buried  money,"  repeated  the  venerable  leer-eye^ 
•;  but  you  did  not  dream  of  bringing  away  the 
treasure — how  can  it  possibly  be  true  ?"  "  True," 
replied  the  other,  with  a  knowing  squint,  "  but  am 
I  not  a  seventh  son,  and  if  you  had  that  honour, 
you  would  rather  be  counting  out  the  money,  than 
dozing  over  the  story."  The  publican  really 
believed  there  was  something  in  it,  and  without 
another  word,  conducted  the  stranger  behind  the 
barn,  then  through  the  bars,  field,  and  meadow, 
and  stood  before  the  identical  tree  pointed  out  in 
the  vision.  The  traveller  seemed  to  look  round 
with  terrified  astonishment,  but  his  guide  after 
superficially  examining  the  ground,  disappoint* 
edly  shook  his  head,  observing,  "  Who  would 
dream  of  money  below  brushes  and  rocks* 
which  seem  more  the  resort  of  rattlesnakes,  than 
the  abode  of  sovereigns  and  dollars.  You  are 
either  no  seventh  son,  or  some  foolish  ghost  has 
played  you  a  trick  in  your  dream."  He  turned 
on  his  heel  in  spite  of  the  other's  remonstrances^ 
who  apparently  disappointed,  returned  whistling 
to  his  room. 


92 

The  next  morning  he  was  found  again  on  the 
piaiza,  and  declared  to  his  landlord,  that  he  had 
dreamed  the  same  dream  again.  He  protested 
that  the  goblin  had  disclosed  to  him,  under  the 
tree,  a  hole  filled  with  chests  and  pots  of  the  rich- 
est coin ;  but  while  he  was  carrying  them  away,  a 
clap  of  thunder  arrested  his  progress,  and  awoke 
him  only  to  communicate  the  disappointment. 
After  some  persuasion,  the  old  man  walked  back 
with  him  to  the  place — they  drew  up  the  bushes — 
and  thought  they  saw  something  like  formerly 
opened  ground — but  the  noise  of  something  ap- 
proaching impeded  further  research,  and  they 
determined  to  postpone  their  enquiries  for  the 
present. 

The  dawn  had  no  sooner  purpled  the  hills,  than 
our  traveller  was  wide  awake.  With  eyes,  wild 
as  hawk's,  he  soundly  averred,  "  that  he  had 
dreamed  the  same  dream  again— only  that  he 
had  brought  home  a  shower  of  money — but  that 
the  noise  of  counting  it  had  actually  awakened 
him."  "  Aye  now,"  exclaimed  Boniface,  "  there 
may  be  something  in  that.  Finding  and  count- 
ing money  are  always  infallible  signs.  So  now 
for  business  !"  The  crow-bar,  pick-axe,  and 


93 

shovel,  were  all  slily  conveyed  by  these  cautious 
blades  to  the  dreary  tree  of  visions.  It  was  a 
fine,  clear  morning.  The  rising  sun  appeared  to 
clothe  every  object  with  gold,  reminding  them  of 
the  riches  its  light  would  soon  reveal.  It  was  a, 
spot  seldom  frequented,  as  it  bore  the  name  of 
the  "  Haunted  Tree,"  and  even  the  cattle  would 
not  approach  it,  as  the  knoll  produced  nothing  to 
satisfy  their  hunger.  "  Now  come,"  said  Boni- 
face, "  we'll  see  what  there  is  in  dreams !"  "Yes, 
and  the  dreams  of  a  seventh  son,"  retorted  the 
sharp-witted  stranger.  "  But  hush !  what's  that  ?" 
"  It  is  only  the  noise  of  my  farm  horn,"  said  the 
trembling  old  man,  "  that  has  no  business  to 
sound  without  my  express  orders."  "  It  would 
be  strange,"  whispered  the  other,  "  if  my  dream 
should  prove  false,  for  who  ever  heard  of  a  triple 
dream  becoming  otherwise  than  true  ?"  "  Si- 
lence !"  returned  the  busy  gray  hairs,  plying  awk- 
wardly with  the  shovel,  "  and  let  us  wait  for  con- 
versation when  the  gold  is  in  our  pockets."  They 
had  some  difficulty  in  removing  the  brush  and 
stone  that  entangled  their  labour,  until  at  last 
they  opened  something  resembling  newly  opened 
ground.  «  Hang  it,  but,"  said  Boniface,  "  the 
ground  works  rather  easy,  considering  years' 


94 

must  have  hardened  it,  and  from  the  ease  with 
which  you  work,  you  must  be  a  capital  hand  in 
clearing  new  lands, — but  hush!  what  noise  is 
that  ? — or  the  State  will  cheat  us  of  half  of  our 
earnings !"  They  heard  another,  but  it  was  only 
the  cawing  of  a  crow  perched  upon  a  neighbour- 
ing fence.  "  Nonsense,"  said  the  old  one,  "  why 
toil  here  in  vain  for  stumps  and  rocks,  when  we 
might  be  relishing  at  home  a  smoking,  hearty 
breakfast !"  "  Peace,"  returned  the  other,  striking 
against  something  hard  and  shining ;  but  it  was 
only  a  polished  stone  which  he  threw  in  vexation 
at  the  crow.  Having  dug  about  six  feet,  they 
were  arrested  by  something  of  a  chest-like  ap- 
pearance, that  caused  a  hollow  rattling  when 
plied  upon  by  the  pick-axe.  "  Huzza  !  huzza !" 
shouted  the  raw-boned  laugher ;  "  behold  the 
dream  of  the  seventh  son  realized !"  "  But 
where's  the  goblin  ?"  interrogated  the  venerable 
trembler.  "  It  must  have  been  that  crow,"  sighed 
the  fellow  facetiously,  "  or  else  my  own  ghost ;  for 
you  know  that  the  spirits  of  seventh  sons  wander 
while  their  bodies  are  snoring  quietly  in  bed."  In 
breathless  silence,  they  raised  a  large  chest,  and 
several  pots  of  coin  about  the  size  of  dollars,  but 
they  were  covered  by  a  thick  mould  and  rust,  that 


95 

rendered  it  impossible  to  define  their  value.  "  I 
know  them  \  I  know  them  i"  rejoined  the  gray 
hairs,  chuckling,  "  they  are  doubtless  dollars  or 
joes  buried  here  in  the  continental  war !"  "  Be 
careful,  my  old  buck,"  returned  the  other,  "  what 
you  mumble  behindthese  trees,  or  I  warrant  before 
night,  that  the  harpies  of  the  land  have  it  snug  in 
their  coffers !"  They  concealed  the  hole  in  which 
the  treasure  was  deposited,  and  behind  the  veil 
of  darkness,  it  was  silently  conveyed  to  the  most 
secret  room  of  the  inn.  It  was  counted  upon  the 

floor — and  made  ten  rows  of  twelve  pieces  each, 

• 
extending  round  the  chamber.     "  All  I  want  is  my 

rights !"  droned  the  smooth-tongued  fellow,  "  and 
justice  demands  that  I  am  entitled  to  half  as 
finder."  "  Right,"  replied  his  grinning  compa- 
nion, "  and  I  will  close  my  barn  of  an  inn,  and 

live  like  a" "  A  seventh  son,"  responded  the 

eye-sparkling  stranger. 

The  old  man  agreed,  that  as  the  traveller  could 
not  carry  so  much  specie  in  his  saddle  bags,  that 
he  would  commute  with  him  for  bills  to  the  value 
of  three  thousand  dollars,  and  he  besought  of  him 
as  a  favour,  that  he  would  speedily  leave  his  pre- 
mises, for  fear  of  suspicions  respecting  the  booty. 


96 

The  traveller  obligingly  left  the  happy  publican 
chuckling  in  the  midst  of  his  enormous  treasures 
— and  it  was  not  until  the  following  day,  when  he 
made  arrangements  to  deposite  his  cash,  that  he 
discovered,  the  money  was  only  base  metal  bu- 
ried by  the  fellow,  and  washed  over  with  a 
chymical  preparation — that  the  best  horse  was 
missing  from  the  stable — that  the  vision  was  all 
a  fable — and  that  the  pretended  seventh  son 
was  only  a  villanous  MONEY  DREAMER. 


TALES  OF   THE   PRISON, 


[BY  THE   LITTLE  MAN  IN  BLACK.] 


How  many  pine  in  want  and  dungeon  glooms  : 
Shut  from  the  common  air,  and  common  use 
.Of  their  own  limbs ! 

THOMSON. 


IN  Liberty-street,  New- York,  there  is  a  dark 
stone  building,  grown  gray  and  rusty  with  age, 
with  small,  deep  windows,  exhibiting  a  dungeon- 
like  aspect,  and  transporting  the  memory  to  scenes 
long  ago  transpired,  when  the  revolution  poured 
its  desolating  waves  over  the  fairest  portions  of 
our   country.     It  is   five   stories  high ;   each  of 
which  is  divided  into  two  dreary  apartments; 
but  the  ceilings  are  so  low,  and  the  light  from 
the  windows  so  dim,  that  a  stranger  might  be 
apt  to  mistake  the  edifice  for  a  prison.     Etched 
upon  the  walls,  the  initials  of  names,  and  ancient 
dates  are  still  plainly  discernible,  which  are  said 
to  have  been  the  work  of  the  American  prisoner?. 
No.  IV.— 1 


da 

confined  there  during  the  continental  war.  There 
is  a  gaol-like  appearance  of  a  door  opening  into 
the  street,  and  another  descending  at  the  side 
into  a  dismal  cellar-region  scarcely  allowing  the 
mid-day  sunshine  to  peep  through  its  window 
gratings.  The  yard  around  this  tall  pile  has 
been  fenced  up  of  late  years,  and  a  wing  added 
to  the  south-west  end  to  aid  in  the  manufacture 
of  sugar,  to  which  the  structure  was  originally, 
and  has  ever  since  been  devoted.  Curiosity  led 
me  lately  to  loiter  round  the  premises,  and  rum- 
mage amid  the  gloomy  mass,  for  relics  of  past 
events.  A  cart,  backed  at  the  gate,  was  receiv- 
ing a  huge  supply  of  sugar  loaves — a  number  of 
busy,  smoky^faced  fellows,  were  plodding  up  and 
down  the  steps — a  sleepy-headed  mastiff  was 
dozing  near  the  door — and  around  me  were  old 
hogsheads  and  boxes,  and  barrels,  rough  gable- 
ends  of  houses,  the  golden  rooster  that  seemed 
crowing  from  the  neighbouring  steeple,  together 
with  the  dumpous,  old  fabric,  that  made  me 
fancy  myself  near  the  Bastile.  As  I  was  sitting  on 
the  step,  there  entered  the  yard  a  couple  of  aged 
veterans,  somewhat  shabbily  dressed,  haggard 
with  years  and  cares;  the  one  tremblingly  sup- 
ported by  a  staff  which  shook  under  his  hand,  and 


99 

the  other  by  a  crutch  which  but  feebly  supplied 
the  deficiency  of  a  leg.  They  gazed  around  in 
wild,  inquisitive  silence,  and  whispering  to  each 
other  something  which  I  could  not  hear,  the  one 
wiped  away  a  tear  from  his  eye,  while  his  compan- 
ion pulled  him  by  the  arm  as  if  hurrying  him  from 
the  most  melancholy  scene.  "Stop,  my  good 
fellows,"  said  I,  overcome  by  the  affecting  sight, 
"  Does  either  of  you  remember  this  old  build- 
ing ?"  "  Aye,  indeed,"  replied  one  of  the  silver- 
haired  veterans ;  "  this  hole  was  once  my  home ! 
For  a  long  tedious  year  I  was  imprisoned  here  by 
the  English,  until  Providence  was  pleased  to 
favour  me  with  the  means  of  escaping.  You 
may  see  the  initials  of  my  name,  H.  W.  there," 
said  he,  pointing  with  his  cane  to  an  adjoining 
brick  building;  "and  that  was  done  when  we 
were  occasionally  allowed  to  take  a  moment's 
fresh  air  in  the  yard. — But  come,  Jenkins,  we 
have  had  enough  of  these  sad  memorials !"  I 
was  wound  up  to  the  highest  pitch,  and  for  my 
life  I  could  not  let  the  poor  fellows  go.  I  insisted 
on  their  accompanying  me  to  a  neighbouring 
hotel,  where,  after  they  had  partaken  of  an  excel- 
lent dinner,  they  amused  me  with  the  recital  of 
some  of  their  past  adventures.  The  one-legged 


100 

veteran  broke  the  silence  first.  "  Perhaps  you 
wish  to  learn  somthing,  Sir,  respecting  the  sugar- 
house  in  Liberty,  once,  Crown-street :  if  you  will 
pardon  an  old  man's  garrulity,  I  will  relate  to  you 
the  following  particulars. 

About  the  year  1777,  when  the  British,  under 
General  Howe,  had  possession  of  New-York. 
they  appropriated  a  number  of  public  buildings 
to  the  confinement  of  their  American  prisoners. 
Among  them  were  the  Brick  Meeting,  the  North 
Dutch  Church,  the  late  Friends'  meeting-house  in 
Pearl-street,  the  Gaol,  and  the  Sugar  house  in 
Crown-street,  while  the  Middle :  Dutch  Church 
was  sometimes  used  as  a  hospital,  and  also  as  a 
riding  school  for  the  use  of  the  English  cavalry. 
Though  the  bravest  of  nations,  I  regret  that  the 
British  thus  violated  the  temples  of  religion ;  con- 
verting them  from  asylums  of  peace,  into  unhal- 
lowed magazines  of  war.  But  War,  you  know, 
is  a  rash,  blustering  fellow,  and  whenever  he  flies 
in  a  passion  does  many  things  to  repent  of,  when 
the  carnage  and  bustle  are  over.  I  was  then 
quartered  at  Belleville,  New-Jersey,  in  the  Ameri- 
can army  under  Colonel  Courtlandt,  and  we  were 
encamped  on  both  sides  of  the  river  on  the 


101 

woody  hills,  where  the  village  was  seen  beauti- 
fully reflected  on  the  Passaic,  seeming  to  clasp  it 
in  its  silvery  zone.  We  had  been  hourly  expect- 
ing an  attack  from  Sir  Harry  Clinton,  but  had 
been  for  several  days  disappointed.  Delay,  un- 
fortunately, rocked  us  into  security,  and  we  were 
at  last  unexpectedly  surprised.  It  was  a  dark 
cloudy  night — not  a  star  was  to  be  seen.  The 
last  tap  of  the  reveille  had  sunk  us  into  a  sound 
sleep,  and  only  the  watchword  of  the  sentinels 
interrupted  the  silence  of  the  camp.  The  fierce 
report  of  musketry  roused  us  from  slumber,  and 
looking  through  the  darkness,  we  saw  the  blaze 
of  artillery  playing  upon  our  camp,  and  heard 
upon  our  right  the  shouting  of  a  multitude  of 
soldiers.  A  part  of  our  army  being  on  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  river,  many  of  us  supposed 
that  succour  might  be  found  there,  and  hastily 
plunged  into  the  tide  in  the  hope  of  deliverance 
from  that  quarter.  "Come  along — come  along, 
my  brave  fellows,'*  cried  cheering  voices  from 
the  other  side  of  the  Passaic,  "  here  are  your 
friends," — and  sure  enough,  we  were  taken  up 
and  secured  by  a  body  of  American  refugees 
waiting  to  receive  us  on  the  bank.  We  were 
all  made  prisoners,  and  we  were  hurried  along. 


102 

some  with  their  hands  tied  behind,  as  a  pe- 
nance for  their  past  bravery,  and  others  growl- 
ing under  a  hearty  luncheon  from  a  corporal's 
thwacking  sword,  doubtless  to  soften  their  flesh 
and  prejudices  at  the  same  time.  Our  journey 
was  rather  tedious,  lying  through  a  long  cor- 
deroy  causeway,  formed  of  round  logs  sunk  in 
the  meadows,  through  a  bewildering  forest  of 
pines,  which  is  said  to  have  been  consumed  by 
the  burning  of  a  load  of  hay,  from  a  sleeping 
dutch  farmer's  pipe.  Oh,  the  curses  that  were 
showered  upon  us  by  the  rabble  that  followed, 
and  more  particularly  by  the  American  refugees, 
ten  thousand  times  worse  than  the  enemy.  To 
cut  a  long  story  short,  my  detachment  was  march- 
ed to  the  Sugar-house  in  Liberty-street,  and  there 
we  were  allowed  to  rest  our  aching  bones  01* 
sugared  floors,  by  way  of  sweetening  our  bitter  lot, 
and  softening  the  hardships  we  had  previously 
encountered.  Our  prison  was  literally  an  epi- 
tome of  national  distress.  Here  were  herds  of 
unfortunate  Irish,  belaboring  every  hair  of  their 
heads  for  suffering  themselves  to  be  cooped, 
like  wild  beasts,  in  such  a  hole  ;-r— there,  wrong- 
headed  Hollanders,  spitting  forth  their  malice, 
and  muttering  in  broken  English,  their  growls  of 


103 

threatened  vengeance.  A  number  of  frolicsome 
Frenchmen  would  snuff  up  whole  vollies  of  rap- 
pee, and  snapping  their  fingers  at  the  sentinels' 
backs,  would  sing  out  "  Washington  and  Liberty 
for  ever."  In  short,  we  had  English,  German, 
Italian,  and  Portuguese ;  and  such  a  motley  crew 
of  fellows  you  would  be  puzzled  to  find,  except 
in  the  walls  of  the  State's  Prison,  or  Bridewell. 
Then  we  had  continual  bickerings,  revilings,  and 
battles ;  so  that  the  soldiers  were  often  obliged  to 
separate  the  prisoners  to  prevent  the  effusion  of 
blood  that  would  have  otherwise  ensued.  Our 
rations  were  unwholesome,  and  often  scantily  fur- 
nished. The  neutral  citizens  would  often  send 
us  temporary  supplies  ;  and  although  the  English 
must  have  been  privy  to  this,  they  had  the  mag- 
nanimity not  to  prevent  it.  To  describe  the  filth, 
vermin,  and  intolerable  stench  which  we  con- 
stantly encountered  would  be  impossible.  The 
prison  fever,  at  this  time,  breaking  out  among 
us,  swept  numbers  from  our  society,  and  consign- 
ed hundreds  but  half  dead  to  the  clutches  of  the 
undertakers.  I  have  seen  many  a  cart-load  of  bo- 
dies piled  up,  like  billets  of  wood,  to  be  interred 
in  deep  holes  around  the  city,  without  any  other 
covering  than  their  clothes  and  the  cold  ground. 


104 

One  poor  fellow  was  observed  stirring  in  a  heap 
of  dead  bodies  carrying  off  for  burial,  but  some 
humane  citizen  snatched  him  from  the  cart,  and 
having  been  resuscitated,  he  lived  many  years  to 
thank  his  deliverer.  But  I  am  not  disposed  to 
censure  the  cruelty  of  the  English ;  for  in  such 
times  as  these  it  is  impossible,  amid  the  uproar 
and  confusion,  to  avoid  many  things,  which  in 
public  tranquillity  we  would  abhor.  New  re- 
cruits to  our  body  were  continually  arriving,  and 
others  were  discharged  who  had  been  regularly 
exchanged.  I  became  dreadfully  sick  of  this 
prison  life,  and  determined,  if  possible,  to  break 
the  bonds  of  my  servitude.  I  had  been  confined 
about  eleven  months,  and  had  been  anxiously 
waiting  an  honourable  redemption.  But  as  I  in- 
dulged no  farther  hopes,  I  resolved  to  adopt  some 
expedient  for  escaping.  Though  I  had  previously 
made  several  attempts,  yet  I  was  always  unsuc- 
cessful. Either  the  sentinels  were  too  wary — the 
yard  was  too  full  of  soldiers — the  windows  were 
too  high  from  the  ground,  and  to  fly  from  the 
doors  would  be  to  rush  upon  the  very  guards 
themselves. 

.  I  resolved  that  very  night,  when  a  large  body 


JO.O 

, 

of  prisoners  was  expected,  to  slip  through  the 
back  door  into  the  yard,  and  escape,  by  the  dark- 
ness and  bustle,  to  the  house  of  a  friend  in  the 
city.  I  had  nothing  about  me  but  my  clothes, 
an  empty  tobacco-box,  and  a  few  shillings ;  and 
there  were  no  impediments  in  my  way,  but  want 
of  courage,  or  else  failure  in  the  attempt.  I 
paced  all  day  up  and  down  the  floor,  feeling  like 
a  general  with  a  heavy  design  in  view,  but  with 
a  fluttering  heart,  lest  my  favourite  scheme  should 
fail.  I  gazed  through  the  windows  on  the  town ; 
but  only  a  few  English  flags  were  seen  waving  in 
the  distance,  and  crowds  of  officers  and  soldiers 
patrolling  below  through  the  street.  The  roar  of 
distant  artillery  from  the  river  was  occasionally 
announcing  new  arrivals,  and  the  shouts  of  mobs 
in  various  directions,  filled  me  with  no  very 
agreeable  sensations.  I  again  longed  to  be  in 
the  thickest  of  the  battle,  and  to  rejoin  the  army 
under  General  Gates,  to  repay  the  enemy  for  my 
long-continued  sufferings.  I  absolutely  lost  my 
appetite.  When  the  evening  rations  were  served 
out,  I  most  independently  refused  my  share,  and 
felt  that  I  was  offered  my  own  country's  spoils, 
and  enslaved  on  the  soil  of  my  own  paternal 
home.  I  grew  proud  and  sulky,  and  thought 
.  No.  IV.— 2 


106 

only  of  drinking  in  the  morning  the  success  of 
General  Washington,  and  the  confusion  of  those 
who  had  so  long  made  me  a  slave.  The  time 
rolled  so  tedious,  that  I  feared  the  hour  of  deli- 
verance would  never  come.  The  sky  began  to 
look  stormy  and  dark,  and  the  wind  whistled 
shrilly  about  the  windows.  The  clock,  from  the 
neighbouring  steeple,  tolled  the  hour  of  nine.  It 
was  about  the  time  when  the  sentinels  changed 
posts ;  and  I  resolved  to  be  near  the  back  entrance 
the  very  moment  they  relieved  each  other.  I 
listened  till  I  caught  the  rumbling  of  feet  in  the 
court-yard,  and  the  deep,  quick  voices  of  the  sen- 
tinels answering,  around  the  building,  to  each 
other.  I  stole  stealthily  along  through  the  pri- 
soners, and  heard  the  tapping  of  the  drum  an- 
nouncing the  wished-for  event.  As  I  stood  be- 
hind the  door,  I  distinguished,  through  the 
gratings,  the  dim  figures  of  the  sentinels,  and  the 
slow  clattering  of  steps  ascending  up  the  stair- 
way. With  a  beating  heart,  I  listened  to  the 
key  rattling  in  the  rusty  wards,  and  immediately 
the  door  opened,  and  a  deep  file  of  prisoners  en- 
tered. Stooping  on  all-fours,  I  crept  cautiously 
through  them,  to  the  bottom  of  the  steps,  when  I 
gave  a  spring  into  a  dark,  opposite  corner,  where 


1  just  perceived  the  sentry  turning  round  the  edi- 
fice, and  the  heavy  prison-door  rolling  back  upon 
its  hinges.  O,  how  delicious  did  the  sweet  air  of 
heaven  feel  to  my  parched-up  spirits,  and  the  very 
gloom  of  the  sky  became  an  object  of  admiration 
— but  the  recollection  of  where  I  was,  chastised 
the  satisfaction,  and  filled  me  with  a  horror  which 
language  cannot  describe.  I  was  standing  in  the 
angle  of  a  high  enclosure  lately  used  as  a  bar- 
rack, but  was  now  deserted  of  the  soldiers^ 
who  were  absent  somewhere  on  service.  The 
sentries  were  pausing  near  the  door,  and  reload- 
ing their  arms  by  the  light  of  a  flickering  lamp, 
when  a  voice  cried  out  from  the  yard,  that  a  pri- 
soner was  standing  in  the  corner.  My  first  en- 
deavour was  to  scale  the  lofty  fence,  or  search 
for  some  avenue  or  window,  to  avoid  the  impend- 
ing danger.  But  there  was  no  possible  egress, 
except  by  turning  round  and  facing  the  enemy, 
for  the  fence  was  too  high,  and  no  aperture  could 
be  found  capable  of  admitting  my  body.  How 
the  perspiration  trickled  from  my  forehead,  when 
several  footsteps  were  apparently  approaching, 
and  I  felt  that  my  plans  were  altogether  blasted ! 
The  snapping  of  a  musket-lock  grated  awfully 
upon  my  ears,  and  the  figure  of  a  red  coat  was 


108 

advancing  hastily  towards  me.     1  cannot  say 
what  I  did ;  but  at  this  instant,  a  board  gave  way 
to  my  pressure,  and  immediately  I  was  on  the 
other  side,  flying,  like  a  stricken  deer,  for  my  life. 
The  flash  of  a  gun  was  just  visible  behind  me. 
and  loud,  murmuring  voices  were  urging  the  pur- 
suit of  the  fugitive.     Nassau-street  and  Broad- 
way were  crossed  with  the  rapidity  of  lightning ; 
but  the  trampling  of  the  hunters  was  fearfully 
gaming  ground.     Favoured  by  the  darkness,  I 
took  refuge  in  an  alley,  now  called  Lumber-street, 
and  several  muskets  were  fired  apparently  in  the 
next  street,  down  which  my  enemies  pursued  me. 
It   was    really  an    uncomfortable   night.      The 
clouds  were  flying,  like  myself,  in  uncertainty  and 
darkness,  and  occasional  flurries  of  rain  pattered 
down  on  my  unsheltered  head.     But  where  was  I 
to  go  ?     The  house  where  I  expected  shelter  was 
on  the  other  side  of  the  city,  and  to  venture  in 
the  direction  of  my  prison,  was  almost  flying  into 
the  arms  of  death.     There  was  but  one  resource 
left,  which  was  to  gain  the  North  river,  and  find, 
if  possible,  a  boat  that  might  convey  me  to  the 
American  army.     As  I  was  stealing  past  the 
corner,  a  British  soldier  passed  me :  the  barrel  of 
his  gun  glittered  on  his  shoulder,  and  the  flapping 


of  his  red  coat  darted  for  a  moment  upon  my  eye. 
I  fled  once  more  with  the  agility  of  an  eagle,  and 
heard  again  the  cry  of  pursuit  ringing  fearfully 
after  me.  Words  cannot  express  my  emotions, 
when  I  found  a  skiff  at  the  wharf  furnished  with  a 
pair  of  oars,  and  moored  to  the  shore  by  a  short 
and  slender  fastening.  O  how  wonderfully  Provi- 
dence often  succours  its  dependants,  and  leads, 
as  by  an  unseen  hand,  the  wandering  and  perish- 
ing sufferer !  I  cannot  tell  how  the  chord  was 
broken,  but  I  only  remember  plying  away  with  the 
oars,  before  I  was  conscious  of  handling  them. 
It  was  fortunately  flood  tide,  and  with  a  lusty 
sweep,  for  I  was  no  bad  sailor,  I  was  clearing 
the  wharf  with  the  velocity  of  an  arrow,  when  I 
saw  a  company  of  soldiers  collecting  at  the  pier, 
and  taking  deadly  aim  at  my  poor,  unsheltered 
carcass.  The  balls  whizzed  reboundingly  back 
upon  the  water,  and  one  of  the  oars  trembled 
under  the  shock.  But  uninjured,  I  bent  myself 
back  upon  the  seat,  and  pulled  away  with  a  grasp 
which  nothing  but  death  could  unfasten.  I  was 
already  a  mile  from  the  landing,  when,  after 
the  sound  of  advancing  oars,  a  boat  appeared 
behind  manned  with  several  persons,  and  a  lamp 
in  the  pinnace  seemed  to  light  up  the  counte- 


110 

nances  of  soldiers.  The  wind  was  blowing  a 
gale  from  the  south-west,  and  the  rocking  of  the 
skiff  among  the  waves  constantly  endangered  it 
with  filling,  and  afforded  me  only  an  occasional 
glimpse  of  the  barge, — the  rolling  of  whose  oars 
sounded  most  appalling  to  my  ears.  I  feared 
not  death— but  the  idea  of  being  enslaved  by  the 
enemy  was  dyingly  oppressive.  The  boat  really 
seemed  gaining  upon  me ;  for  what  can  one  do 
against  the  united  exertions  of  several  ?  Once 
I  turned  my  head  as  the  barge  was  mounting  a 
wave,  but  the  whistling  noise  of  a  bullet  chilled 
further  curiosity,  and  the  report  of  distant  cannon 
made  me  imagine  that  the  whole  British  army 
was  pursuing.  My  best  plan  was  to  fall  in  the 
shadows  of  the  palisades,  and  rather  than  be 
taken,  to  make  speedily  for  the  shore,  and  con- 
ceal myself  amidst  the  entangling  shrubbery. 
The  louder  noise  of  approaching  oars  urged  me 
to  land  as  rapidly  as  possible.  It  was  in  a 
shelving  cove,  darkened  by  a  gigantic  rock  on 
the  left,  whose  top  was  overhung  with  hemlocks 
and  cedars,  some  of  which,  torn  off  by  the  ele- 
ments, were  trailing  their  wild  branches  in  the 
water.  I  pulled  the  skiff  along  over  a  ledge  of 
slippery  weeds,  and  hid  it  in  a  dark  hole,  fasten- 


in 

mg  the  cord  round  the  cleft  of  a  rock.  I  clam- 
bered carefully  along  on  the  body  of  a  fallen 
tree,  which  landed  me  on  a  rugged  knoll  over- 
looking the  dark  waters,  and  terminating  behind 
in  a  deep  valley  that  retired  into  a  cavity  of  the 
hill.  Rocks,  forests,  and  bushy  heights  over- 
shadowed me  from  observation,  as  I  looked  down 
upon  the  boat,  from  which  several  fierce  soldiers 
sprang,  intending,  no  doubt,  to  secure  the  run- 
away prisoner.  I  feared  to  stir ;  as  the  least 
rustling  might  discover  my  retreat,  and  lodge  in 
my  head  a  few  silencing  bullets.  There  was  no 
one  here  to  tell  tales ;  and  avoidance  of  death 
in  such  a  place  must  depend  on  concealment,  or 
the  most  heroic  bravery.  Four  or  five  brawny 
fellows,  armed  apparently  with  muskets,  stood 
immediately  at  my  side,  and  sat  down  on  the 
very  rock  under  which  I  had  sought  shelter. 
"  Confound  it !"  said  one,  "  We  had  like  to  have 
finished  that  chap  on  the  wharf;  but  what  a  tug 
we  had  in  letting  off  from  the  shore !"  "  Yes,"  re- 
turned a  hoarse,  murdering  voice,  "  I  wish  I  had 
driven  this  bayonet  through  his  liver,  and  then 
had  the  sport  of  setting  him  on  that  stump  for 
the  pleasure  of  popping  him  down:  but  where  can 
that  fellow  have  gone  for  whom  we  have  had  such 


112 

a  goose  chase  ?  By  the  powers !  if  I  had  him 
here,  I'd  make  gravy  of  every  bone  in  his  body !" 
I  felt  the  feet  of  one  of  the  gang  kicking  my 
back,  and  immediately  a  fellow  sung  out,  "  Why, 
hang  it,  what  have  we  here  ?  I  believe  on  my 
conscience  that  we  have  stumbled  on  that  very 
identical  scoundrel. — Come  out  here,  my  hare- 
hearted  soul,  and  do  not  be  ashamed  to  look  in 
the  face  of  six  brave,  honest  soldiers !"  I  was 
dragged  out,  neck  and  heels,  and  with  all  the  force 
I  could  oppose  to  the  opposition  of  several,  I 
cried  out — "Murder  me  here,— ye  miscreants! 
but  take  me  not  back  to  that  execrable  prison !" 
"  Murder — Prison — och  blazes,"  screamed  out  a 
squalid  Hibernian, — "  do  ye  think,  jewel,  its  mur- 
dering ye  we're  after. — Be  quiet  honey,  we'll  not 
harm  a  hair  of  your  head,  only  tell  us  what  ye're 
after  doing  here;  doubtless,  ye're  a  murderer 
yourself, — or  else  ye  would  not  be  squatting  be- 
hind rocks  to  fall  upon  poor  defenceless  travel- 
lers." "  I  am  a  poor,  unfortunate  American,"  I 
replied,  "  who  have  just  escaped  from  the  prison- 
house  in  Crown-street ;  and  I  have  been  flying  for 
my  life  from  the  pursuit  of  the  English  guard  !". 
"  Ah,  monsieur,"  squeaked  out  a  poor  Frenchman. 
"  I  tell  you  he  vas  de  prisonaire  just  fly  from  our 
prison,  and  vy  did  you  fire  de  gun  ?" 


U3 

The  mystery  was  soon  explained.  The  party 
were  some  of  my  late  fellow  sufferers,  who, 
taking  advantage  of  the  search  of  the  sentinels, 
had  escaped,  through  one  of  the  windows,  to  the 
North  river,  but  not  without  maiming  several  of 
the  Hessian  guard,  whose  guns  they  fortunately 
brought  away.  Perceiving  my  boat,  and  mis- 
taking me  for  a  peaceable  farmer,  they  discharged 
a  musket  to  alarm  me,  and  arrest  my  progress,  in 
order  to  avail  themselves  of  my  counsel  and  as- 
sistance. They  had  followed  me  from  the  shore, 
and  disappointed  at  not  finding  any  person 
or  house,  they  had  determined  to  remain  where 
they  found  me,  till  the  morning.  Oh,  how  joyfully 
did  we  recount  the  sufferings  which  we  had  es- 
caped, and  the  future  plans  to  be  pursued,  after  the 
victories  we  should  assist  in  gaining.  By  break 
of  day,  we  jumped  into  our  boats,  and  not  long 
after  rejoined  the  army  at  Saratoga,  where 
that  memorable  surrender  took  place  so  im- 
portant and  glorious  to  America." 

The  one-legged  veteran  ceased,  and  the  other 
laying  aside  his  cane,  related  the  following  med- 
ley of  adventures. 

No.  IV.— 3 


When  the  Americans  had  possession  of  Fort 
Washington,  on  the  North  river,  which  was  the 
only  post  they  held  at  that  time  on  New-York 
island,  I  was  a  captain  of  light  infantry  stationed 
there  on  duty.  The  American  army  having  re- 
treated from  the  city  of  New-York,  Sir  William 
Howe  determined  to  avail  himself  of  the  oppor- 
tunity, and  reduce  that  garrison  to  the  subjection 
of  the  British.  Our  detachment  at  that  time 
began  to  be  in  want  of  provisions,  and  as  General 
Washington  was  at  Fort  Lee,  it  was  a  difficult 
matter  to  supply  ourselves  from  a  distance,  with- 
out running  the  hazard  of  interception  by  the 
enemy.  There  was,  only  a  few  miles  from  our 
garrison  on  the  Northern  turnpike,  a  well  stock- 
ed Inn-keeper,  who,  alarmed  by  British  threats, 
was  something  of  a  refugee,  and  having  refused 
to  take  any  active  part  in  the  war,  was  suspected 
of  secretly  apprising  the  English  of  the  strength 
and  movements  of  the  American  forces.  Though 
a  noted  coward,  he  was  known  to  have  in  his 
cellars  a  large  quantity  of  groceries,  which 
he  was  in  the  habit  of  constantly  retailing  to 
both  armies,  and  as  he  was  considered  an  out- 
law by  the  Americans,  it  had  long  been 
secretly  determined  to  dispossess  him  of  his 


stores.  It  being  the  time  of  need  with  us,  1  was 
appointed,  with  a  few  others,  to  pay  the  landlord 
a  visit,  and  under  pretence  of  -refreshing  our- 
selves on  the  road,  to  ease  him  of  the  booty  we 
so  eagerly  desired.  But  the  grand  difficulty  was, 
whether  we  should  openly  attack  him,  or  accom- 
plish our  purpose  by  some  insidious  stratagem. 
The  former  was  not  so  easy,  as  he  might  secretly 
notify  the  enemy  of  our  approach,  and  then  the 
difficulty  of  finding  the  object  of  our  search, 
might  delay  and  frustrate  the  purpose  of  our 
mission.  We  considered  ifr  the  best  method,  to  . 
be  indebted  to  artifice,  as  a  smaller  body  of  men 
would  answer,  and  as  we  were  less  liable  to  inter- 
ruption and  surprise.  I  was  always  fond  of  sin- 
gular adventures,  and  to  oblige  my  commander, 
and  more  particularly  my  own  humour,  I  started 
off  with  several  brother  officers  to  put  our  de- 
signs in  execution.  We  arrived  at  the  inn  in  less 
than  an  hour,  and  found  the  landlord  quite  good 
natured  and  cozey.  We  called  for  a  snug  supper, 
with  all  the  luxuries  which  his  establishment 
afforded.  We  had  broiled  quails — roasted  fowls 
— a  fine  boiled  turkey — a  surloin  of  beef-— and 
every  vegetable  offering  of  the  season.  On  one 
side  sparkled  gay-blushing  Jamaica  and  crimson- 


I  Hi 

cheeked  Bourdeaux — on  the  other,  were  pale- 
faCed  Holland  and  hasty-tempered  Porter,  ranged 

O 

opposite  to  sparkling  pitchers  of  cider  and  ale, 
which  kindly  foamed  a  welcome  to  the  guests ; 
while,  as  a  body  of  reserve,  appeared  apple  pies, 
mince  pies,  and  custards,  bringing  up  the  rear  of 
this  formidable  army.  "Bless  me,  landlord," 
said  I,  "  this  is  all  finer  than  the  cash  which  must 
pay  for  it — but  it  seems  to  me  you  are  charmingly 
at  ease  amid  the  dangers  which  hang  over  your 
head !"  "  I  have  harmed  no  man,"  replied  the 
thick-lipped  taverne*,  "  and  by  the  same  rule  I 
hope  that  no  one  will  harm  me !"  "  What,"  ex- 
claimed I,  "  have  you  no  fear  of  the  scowling 
English,  who  are  ravaging  the  land,  and  making 
poor  men  of  the  richest  among  us  ?  Think  you, 
that  if  they  will  not  let  New-York  rest,  they 
will  suffer  you  to  slumber  on  the  fat  of  the 
land  ?"  "  I  have  done  no  man  any  harm,"  again 
whined  the  landlord,  "  and  I  know  not  by 
what  principles  they  attack  those  who  place 
themselves  under  their  protection;"  "And  do 
you  suppose,  you  narrow-souled  refugee,  that  the 
British  will  keep  their  promise  ?  No,  I  warrant 
you — 'tis  only  a  pretext  of  war  to  entrap  the 
unguarded,  that  they  may  the  more  securely 


117 

unload  you  of  the  booty  of  which  they  are  in 
quest.  Now  harkyou,  landlord — we  are  American 
officers,  as  you  perceive,  and  wish  to  put  you  on 
your  guard.  Now,  from  what  we  have  heard 
on  the  road,  we  have  reason  to  believe  that  your 
inn  will  be  attacked  to-night,  and  all  its  inn-door 
blessings  divided  among  a  scouting  party  of 
English ;  but  we  only  speak  from  hear-say, — there 
may  be  no  truth  in  the  report — but  we  would  only, 
as  friends,  warn  you  of  the  consequences,  that 
you  may  know  who  your  friends  are,  in  case  of 
the  threatened  attack."  "  Come,  no  jokes,  now, 
brave  Captain  Dennis,"  droned  the  chuckle- 
headed  fellow,  turning  pale  as  he  laughed,  "I 
would  not  believe  it,  if  I  even  heard  it  myself — 
but  where  did  you  learn  the  report  ?"  "  Hear 
the  report,  why,  what  a  joke  that  the  fellow  will 
not  believe  us;  but  dont  imagine  that  we  will 
forsake  you — and  leave  you  to  the  clutches  of 
these  plundering  vermin !  No,  no — so  all  you 
have  to  do  is  to  surrender  us  your  keys,  and 
direct  us  to  the  place  where  your  groceries  are 
secured,  and  we  will  draw  our  swords  most 
lustily  in  your  defence."  The  landlord  stifled 
a  horse-laugh,  as  he  took  down  from  a  hook  a 
bridewell-looking  bunch  of  keys,  opening  certain 


pantries  arid  closets  which  he  generously  pointed 
out,  and  being  inwardly  satisfied  that  we  were 
a  garrison  of  ourselves,  he  declared  that  he  felt 
himself  as  safe  as  if  he  were  in  the  centre  of 
General  Washington's  army.  We  pretended  to 
be  fatigued — desired  to  be  showed  to  our  rooms, 
and  were  only  suffered  to  retire,  on  our  express 
stipulation  with  the  landlord,  that  he  should  be 
allowed  the  privilege  of  sleeping  in  our  apartment. 
This  was  agreed  to,  and  as  the  night  was  rather 
windy,  and  the  hotel  somewhat  solitary  and  desert- 
ed, we  repaired  to  our  beds  at  an  early  hour :  but 
not  so  the  landlord — he  seated  himself  near  the 
fire  and  began  to  stir  it  up — then  he  would  twist 
around  in  his  chair — sometimes  walk  the  floor — 
and  at  others  stare  out  of  the  window,  as  if 
watching  the  motion  of  every  shadow.  "Gen- 
tlemen !  American  officers,  I  would  say,"  stam- 
mered the  trembling  refugee, "  this  seems  to  me  to 
be  an  improper  time  for  sleep !  but  no  dispar- 
agement to  your  bravery,  understand  me,  for  I 
know  that  you  dare  to  doze  even  under  the  muzzle 
of  a  cannon !  But  I  say,  Gentlemen — Officers — it 
appears  to  me  that  we  had  better  stand  guard, 
watching  for  the  enemy,  than  suffer  ourselves, 
like  pigeons  to  be  caught  asleep  in  our  cages !  T 


119 

say,  Gentlemen — I  mean  Officers  !"  We  heard 
the  poor  fellow's  complaints — but  we  snored 
purposely  so  loud,  that  it  actually  drowned  his 
noisy  expostulations.  I  had  considerable  diffi- 
culty in  smothering  a  roar  of  laughter  at  seeing 
our  Boniface  take  off  his  coat  and  vest,  and  then 
put  them  on  again — then  he  unhitched  his 
pantaloons — and  again  he  would  rehang  them  on 
their  gallows.  Now  he  would  peep  out  of  the 
windows — then  listen  at  the  door — but  at  last  he 
ventured,  like  a  true  veteran,  to  dismantle  for  the 
night,  and  retire  behind  the  fortification  of  soft 
sheets  for  safety  till  the  morning.  But  still  the 
cry  of  "  Gentlemen — Officers"  rang  in  our  ears  for 
a  full  half-hour,  when,  provoked  by  the  grumbling, 
and  discordant  complaints,  Sleep  laid  embargo 
upon  the  tongue  of  the  weary  host.  We  re- 
mained still,  and  listened  to  the  whistling  of  the 
wind, that  was  every  moment  sweeping  the  branch- 
es of  the  trees  against  our  windows.  The  rattling 
of  the  sashes,  the  creaking  and  slamming  of  some 
terrific  shutters  and  doors,  that  were  keeping  tune 
with  each  other,  and  the  immense  snoring  of  our 
landlord  kept  up  so  doleful  a  concert,  that  were 
it  not  for  the  purpose  that  kept  our  minds  alive, 
we  should  really  have  given  way  to  nervous  pro- 


120 

Densities.  Amidst  this  discordant  music,  the 
firing  of  musketry  was  heard  around  the  house, 
and  the  confused  voices  of  a  multitude  of  per- 
sons approaching  nearer  and  nearer  to  our  hotel. 
It  would  have  defied  a  Hogarth's  pencil  to  depict 
our  landlord  dancing  up  and  down  the  room, 
arousing  us  by  the  most  endearing  appellations 
to  which  he  could  lay  his  tongue.  "  O,  the  per- 
fidy of  the  British !  My  house  is  attacked !  O, 
the  perjured  promises  of  the  infernal  red  coats ! 
My  property  will  be  robbed!  Gentlemen,  dear 
gentlemen  officers,  help,  help,  help !"  "  Why, 
what's  the  reason  now,"  we  cried,  "  for  all  that 
confounded  racket  ?  Is  this  the  way  you  disturb 
your  guests  from  sleeping,  because  you  only  hear 
the  report  of  a  few  muskets  ?"  "  Oh,  gentlemen 
officers,"  the  eloquent  landlord  pled,  "  your  pro- 
phecy has  come  to  pass :  there — there — only  see 
those  red  coats  endeavouring  to  break  into  the 
cellars !"  "  Sure  enough,  there  they  are,"  we 
amazedly  exclaimed,  hastily  dressing,  "but  be 
pacified,  my  good  sir,  your  property  is  in  safe 
hands — we  have  promised  to  protect  you !"  Se- 
veral volleys  of  small  arms  were  heard  under  the 
windows :  the  cellar  doors,  the  side  shutters, 
and  the  hall  door  were  pounded  with  the  most 


121 

abusive  violence.  "  Open  your  doors — open  your 
doors,  you  obnoxious  rebel,  or  we  will  burn  you  to 
the  ground,  and  make  moonlight  shine  through 
you — unlock  your  cellars,  and  hand  us  out  your 
stores,  or  we  will  roast  you  like  a  turkey  before 
your  own  kitchen  fire !"  The  taverner  was  after  us, 
bringing  up  the  van,  holding  up  his  small  clothes, 
and  entreating  us  to  defend  him  from  the  red 
coats  threatening  to  make  havoc  of  his  property. 
We  heard  the  cellar  door  broken  open,  and  per- 
sons apparently  forcing  their  way  down ;  and  then 
the  rolling  of  barrels,  the  clatter  of  voices,  and 
the  ringing  of  arms  kept  our  host  in  a  state  little 
short  of  distraction.  "Load  your  pistols,  my 
brave  fellows,  I  cried,  and  draw  your  swords,  and 
let  us  march  into  the  lower  regions  to  be  revenged 
upon  these  plunderers  !"  In  a  moment  we  were 
all  arrayed,  being  eight  in  number,  with  our  wea- 
pons, and  were  on  the  point  of  descending 
into  the  cellar,  when  Boniface  insisted  that  I 
should  stay  behind  to  defend  him,  and  in  case  I 
was  wanted,  that  a  signal  of  three  knocks  should 
be  given.  "  Go  on,  then,  brave  comrades,  I  ex- 
claimed, and  let  success  crown  the  efforts  of 
your  valour!"  We  heard  the  tramp  of  their 
heavy  boots  till  they  reached  the  bottom  of  the 
No.  IV.— 4 


122 

< 

stairs,  and  then  there  commenced  a  tremendous 
firing  of  small  arms — now  the  house  would  re- 
echo with  the  clashes  of  broadswords — again  the 
shouts  of  victory  would  ring  through  the  halls — 
then  a  dead  silence  would  prevail — and  now  the 
rolling  of  boxes  and  barrels,  arid  the  apparent 
struggling  of  bodies  as  if  violently  contesting  for 
life.  To  the  publican's  dismay,  three  loud  knocks 
were  heard  upon  the  floor.  They  were  the  sig- 
nal for  my  retreating  below,  and  I  accordingly 
left  the  landlord  half  dead  with  fright ;  and  just 
as  I  was  flying  from  the  cellar,  a  party  of  British 
soldiers  were  entering  the  house,  and  our  host 
was  just  informing  them  of  the  battle  among  his 
kegs.  But  my  men  at  this  time  must  have  been 
more  than  a  mile  ahead  with  their  booty,  and 
mounting  my  fleet  courser  waiting  for  me  in  the 
road,  I  rejoined,  in  a  short  time,  my  party  at  the 
garrison.  But  our  punishment  was  at  hand.  Our 
fortress  was  stormed  on  the  following  day  by 
the  British  army;  by  General  Kniphausen  on 
the  north,  by  General  Matthews,  aided  by  Lord 
Cornwallis,  on  the  east,  together  with  Lieutenant 
Sterling,  and  Lord  Percy.  So  fierce  and  suc- 
cessful was  the  attack,  that  twenty-seven  hundred 
of  us  were  taken  prisoners,  and  a  number  with 


123 

myself  were  marched  off  to  New- York,  to  take 
our   board   and   lodging   at  the  Crown-Street 
Sugar  House,  where  I  think  that  I  paid  compound 
interest  for  the  trick  I  paid  the  poor  refugee  land- 
lord.   If  "  one  good  turn  deserves  another,"  I 
am  sure  that  injustice  and  crime  seldom  fail  of 
meeting  their  deserts  in  this  world ;  so  that  the 
pleasures  of  criminality  are  far  outweighed  by 
the   accompanying  evils    which   it  inflicts.     It 
would  require  a  more  eloquent  tongue  than  mine, 
to  describe  my  residence  in  this  filthy  prison.    It 
was  like  the  soul  inhabiting  a  putrified  body.    I 
made  a  number  of  attempts  to  escape ;  the  first 
of  which,  for  its  oddity,  I  cannot  fail  to  mention. 
Feigning    myself   sick,  I  refused  to  taste  the 
least  morsel  of  food ;  and  so  well  did  I  play  my 
part,  that  the  surgeon  pronounced  me  actually 
in  danger.    I  carried  the  joke  so  far,  as  to  coun- 
terfeit death,  and  I  lay  nearly  half  a  day  stretched 
out  in  the  manner  of  a  corpse.    In  the  hurry  of 
removing  the  bodies  to  the  cart,  I  too  was  bun- 
dled with  the  rest,  and  while  my  hearse  was 
moving  off,  I  had  the  temerity  to  give  my  under- 
taker the  slip,  and  in  my  haste  to  mingle  with  the 
living,  I  unloaded  by  my  struggles  several  of  the 
•dead.    The  driver,  supposing  that  the  corses 


124 

were  returning  to  life,  was  just  on  the  point  of 
taking  to  his  heels,  when,  perceiving  the  soldiers 
giving  chase  to  a  dead  man,  he  calmly  adjusted 
his  load,  and  drove  along  to  the  place  of  inter- 
ment. My  weakness  prevented  me  from  running 
as  fast  as  my  pursuers,  and,  to  my  chagrin,  I  was 
brought  back  to  the  prison,  and  honoured,  they 
said,  beyond  my  deserts,  with  a  real  resurrection 
to  life.  I  began  to  resign  myself  to  despair ;  a 
fever  set  in  after  this  mockery  of  death,  and  1 
came  very  near  being  carried  off  its  victim. 
The  prisoners  were  becoming  as  discontented 
as  myself.  A  large  proportion  had  been  im- 
prisoned more  than  a  year,  and  there  was  no 
prospect  of  deliverance.  I  became  acquainted 
with  an  amiable  young  American,  the  wretched- 
ness of  whose  lot  tended  to  alleviate  my  own. 
Brave,  companionable,  and  kind,  he  has  sat 
many  a  weary  night  at  my  side,  consoling  my 
sorrows,  and  beguiling  the  dreary  hours  with  his 
interesting  history.  He  was  the  child  of  wealthy 
and  doting  parents,  who,  having  given  him  the 
best  education  in  their  power,  intended  to  devote 
him  to  some  honourable  profession.  When  the 
revolution  broke  out,  he  was  pressed  into  the 
service,  and  having  been  broken  down  in  various 


battles,  was  imprisoned  in  the  Sugar  House,  tar 
from  his  parents  and  friends,  who  had  long  since 
considered  him  dead.  But  there  was  one,  from 
whom  he  had  been  torn,  whom  he  loved  better 
than  all  the  world,  to  whom  he  had  repeatedly 
written,  but  had  received  no  reply.  "  My  dear 
friend,"  he  would  say  to  me,  "  if  you  survive  me, 
and  escape  this  deadly  hole,  will  you  inform  my 
dear  parents  and  Eliza,  that  their  Henry  perished 
a  captive  here,  breathing  the  most  fervent  prayers 
for  their  happiness  ?"  I  gave  him  the  most  so- 
lemn assurances — but  I  tried  to  cheer  him  by  the 
hope,  feeble  as  it  was,  of  restoration  to  the  friends 
of  his  bosom.  "  Tell  me  not,"  he  would  add, 
"  of  the  hopes  of  reunion.  There  is  only  one 
world  where  the  ties  of  affection  shall  never 
break,  and  where  the  joys  of  kindred  spirits  will 
evermore  commingle.  The  imprisonment  we 
suffer  is  one  of  the  strongest  arguments  for  such 
a  state,  or  the  Being  who  made  us  would  be  un- 
just to  his  wretched  creatures !"  One  evening,  as 
we  were  sitting  in  the  narrow  window,  we  per- 
ceived a  young  woman  standing  at  the  gate,  and 
imploring  the  sentinel  for  admission  into  the 
prison.  She  entered  this  dreary  abode,  like  an 
angel  among  the  dead,  and  flew  to  her  recog- 
nizing lover,  all  pale  and  altered  as  he  was.  Oh. 


126 

love  requires  no  tokens  to  point  out  the  beloved 
object ;  but  like  the  magnetic  needle,  points,  with 
undeviating  exactness,  to  its  mark,  in  all  climates 
and  seasons ;  and  like  two  kindred  drops  of  water, 
mingling  instinctively  with  each  other.  There 
could  not  have  been  a  more  affecting  meeting. 
She  told  him,  that  she  had  received  his  last  letter, 
but  could  not  answer  it — that  his  parents  were 
yet  living,  and  that  she  had  written  to  them  of  the 
contents — that  her  widowed  mother  was  still  at 
the  homestead,  and  that  anxiety  to  see  her  Henry 
had  nerved  her  to  brave  the  perils  of  the  journey. 
Staying  with  a  friend  in  the  city,  she  promised  to 
visit  him  every  day,  and  alleviate  the  sorrows 
which  she  could  not  remedy.  I  resolved  to  inte- 
rest the  guard  hi  behalf  of  the  young  man. 
Among  the  Hessian  sentinels,  there  was  one  who 
was  in  the  habit  of  serving  out  our  rations,  and 
who,  from  long  intimacy  with  the  prisoners,  was 
almost  considered  a  friend.  As  he  was  about 
closing  us  up  one  night,  I  kindly  solicited  his  at- 
tention— told  the  story  of  the  hapless  couple,  and 
endeavoured  to  make  some  impression  upon  his 
feelings.  He  was  about  turning  away,  when, 
upon  my  offering  him  a  guinea,  which  I  had 
secretly  concealed,  he  became  all  ear,  and  pro 
mised  to  befriend  us.  He  informed  me  that  hr 


12? 

would  not  mount  guard  till  the  following  night, 
and  that  if  we  would  be  at  the  rear  door  precisely 
at  midnight,  he  would  certainly  unfasten  it,  and 
clear  the  coast  for  our  escape.  The  news  ope- 
rated on  our  minds  like  the  most  bewitching 
cordial.  Even  the  gloom  of  our  prison  wore  a 
livelier  aspect,  and  our  bondage  seemed  lightened 
of  half  of  its  burden.  Who  can  describe  the 
heaviness  of  the  lingering  moments?  We 
counted,  with  fluttering  spirits,  the  middle  church 
bell  tolling  the  appointed  hour.  The  prisoners 
were  sunk  in  a  profound  sleep,  and  not  a  single 
step  of  the  sentry  was  heard  walking  its  rounds. 
I  was  inclined  to  believe  that  the  Hessian  had 
forgotten  us ;  when  we  heard  on  a  sudden  a  cau- 
tious tread  from  without,  and  the  wards  of  the 
lock  slowly  yielding  to  the  key.  The  door  partly 
opened,  and  a  low,  rough  voice  invited  us  to  ad- 
vance. It  was  a  clear  moonlight  night,  but  not 
a  creature  was  to  be  seen.  We  softly  descended 
the  stairs,  and,  headed  by  our  guide,  we  were  led 
through  a  narrow  opening,  at  the  corner  of 
which  we  fancied  we  saw  a  soldier,  but  it  was 
only  a  tall  post  partly  illumined  by  the  beams  of 
the  smiling  moon.  The  dark  figure  of  our  con- 
ductor trailing  behind  him  a  short,  heavy  musket. 


128 

made  us  feel  how  much  we  were  in  his  power. 
Leading  us  through  several  windings,  the  faithful 
Hessian  brought  us  to  a  side  street,  near  which 
were  two  persons,  apparently  engaged  in  conver- 
sation. The  tapping  of  a  drum  warned  the  sen- 
tinel to  depart ;  and  while  Henry  was  expressing 
his  apprehensions  about  the  strangers,  his  name 
was  called,  and  in  a  moment  he  was  folded  in  the 
embraces  of  his  parents  and  Eliza. 

Having  received  her  letter,  the  former  had  that 
very  day  arrived,  and  it  was  by  a  secret  appoint- 
ment, between  the  sentinel  and  Eliza,  that  Henry 
so  unexpectedly  met  them.  Words  cannot  ex- 
press our  mutual  rejoicings.  We  lodged  that  night 
at  the  house  of  a  friend,  and  the  next  morning  I 
took  leave  of  my  affectionate  companions,  who 
immediately  returned  to  their  native  villages,  and 
were  shortly,  I  understood,  rewarded  with  each 
other.  Wearied  of  battles,  I  remained  neutral 
in  the  city,  during  the  remainder  of  the  war ;  and 
peace  soon  shedding  its  happy  influence  around, 
the  voice  of  devotion  again  ascended  from  the 
churches  which  had  been  occupied  as  prisons,  and 
business  resumed  its  sway  in  the  Sugar  House, 
the  dungeon  of  all  my  sufferings. 


THE   ILLUSTRIOUS  DEAD. 


All  that's  bright  must  fade, 

The  brightest  still  the  fleetest : 
All  that's  sweet  was  made, 

But  to  be  lost,  when  sweetest. 

T.  MOORE. 


INHERE  is  something  sublimely  affecting  in  the 
contemplation  of  the  illustrious  dead.  We  can 
follow  ordinary  persons  to  the  grave,  and  hallow 
their  sleeping  remains ;  we  can  mingle  our  tears 
with  the  bereaved,  and  pour  in  their  bleeding 
hearts  the  balm  of  consolation*;  but  their  death 
leaves  no  permanent  impression,  like  the  mur- 
muring stream  that  washes  the  traces  from  the 
sand.  But  when  we  bend  over  the  ashes  of  those 
who  towered  among  us  as  pyramids  in  wisdom 
and  usefulness,  whose  path  was  illuminated  by 
their  genius  and  virtues,  and  whose  life  and  de- 
parture have  been  consecrated  by  the  prayers  of 
thousands  whom  they  have  blessed ;  we  almost 

feel  as  if  the  world  had  suffered  a   momentary 
No.  V.— 1 


shock,  and  we  look  despairingly  around  to  reme* 
dy  the  loss.  The  fall  of  a  solitary  rock,  the  pros- 
tration of  a  single  edifice,  may  produce  a  momen- 
tary tremour ;  but  it  is  only  when  the  mountain 
totters,  and  the  city  is  engulphed  in  ruins,  that  the 
soul  is  electrified  with  dismay. 

This  reverential  homage  to  the  memory  of  the 
truly  great  is  the  adoration  which  is  paid  to  in- 
telligence and  virtue,  and  is,  in  some  degree,  an 
evidence  of  the  immortality  of  the  mind.  It  is 
not  the  unmeaning  respect  rendered  to  the  indi- 
vidual, but  to  the  principles  which  have  elevated, 
the  virtues  which  have  adorned,  and  the  ben- 
efits which  have  immortalized  his  character ;  and 
these  consecrated  by  our  best  wishes  and  feel- 
ings, are  embalmed  in  pious  recollection,  and 
preserved  by  the  sculptor  and  historian  from  the 
shades  of  oblivion.  Every  nation  has  shed  its 
tears  over  those  who,  having  been  sent  by  heaven 
to  illuminate  their  country,  have  retired  from  the 
world,  to  give  place  to  the  exertions  of  others. 
They  are  like  the  stars  of  heaven,  which  as  fast 
as  one  declines,  others  rise  to  diffuse  their  light. 
Great  and  good  men  may  be  indeed  regarded,  as 
the  instruments  of  Providence  in  the  meliora- 


tion  of  the  world.  They  are  the  moral  angels 
deputized  to  enlighten  and  purify  society,  arouse 
the  ambition  dormant  in  the  human  breast,  and 
fire,  by  their  example,  to  brilliant  and  praise-worthy 
deeds,  transmitting  their  blessings  to  the  latest 
posterity.  Yet  they  are  nejper  appreciated  till 
their  mortal  career  is  closed.  Familiarized  with 
seeing  them,  with  catching  from  their  lips  the 
treasures  of  intelligence,  with  living  as  it  were  in 
the  sunshine  of  their  superiority,  we  never  know 
their  loss  till  they  are  set  upon  our  sight,  and 
every  object  around  is  involved  in  darkness. 
When  we  see  the  death-pall  covering  the  ashes 
of  the  renowned,  and  a  nation's  tears  are  beheld 
falling  upon  their  sod  from  the  eyes  of  its  noblest 
citizens,  it  is  then  they  find  "  an  epitaph  in  every 
mind,  and  a  tomb  in  every  heart."  The  instanta- 
neous burst  of  feeling,  "  How  can  such  men  be 
dispensed  with  ?"  is  answered  by  the  reply— that 
the  Omniscient  has  done  this  to  convince  us  he 
can  do  without  them — that  his  means  are  as  end- 
less as  his  purposes — that  he  can  raise  up  others 
more  powerful  than  they,  and  that  he  can  render 
even  their  death  instrumental  in  the  furtherance 
of  his  designs. 


13-2 

In  the  death  of  illustrious  men  we  view  the 
imbecility  of  human  plans.  So  supremely  de- 
pendent seems  success  on  the  efforts  of  human 
sagacity,  that  we  calculate  the  issue,  by  the 
talents  of  those  concerned.  National  prosperity 
appears  identified  wijh  the  genius  of  its  statesmen, 
the  policy  of  its  rulers,  and  the  mental  powers  of 
its  literary  men.  All  the  light  that  streams  from 
literature  and  science — all  the  social  gifts  which 
impart  gladness  to  the  domestic  circle,  and  fill 
the  soul  with  silent  and  unspeakable  enjoyment — 
all  the  privileges  which  flow  from  the  hallowed 
fountain  of  civil  and  religious  liberty,  are  sup- 
posed entirely  indebted  to  the  wisdom  of  worldly 
prudence,  and  the  calculation  of  a  few  enlight- 
ened philosophers.  But  when  the  wisdom  that 
should  have  counselled  is  speechless,  and  the  in- 
fluence which  sustained,  is  palsied  by  the  spear 
of  death :  when  the  genius  that  should  have  en- 
lightened, is  quenched  in  its  orbit,  and  the  heart 
that  would  have  administered  happiness,  has 
frozen  in  its  tabernacle,  who  does  not  perceive  the 
folly  of  dependences  so  frail,  so  flattering,  and  so 
false  ?  When  the  enlightened  statesman, on  whom 
are  suspended  the  destinies  of  his  country,  falls  a 
victim  to  the  destroyer,  and  the  judicious  policy 


133 

he  has  pursued,  bids  fair  to  be  blasted  by  the  ga- 
thering political  storm :  when  the  eloquent  coun- 
sellor who  is  both  the  guardian  of  justice  and  the 
advocate  of  suffering,  is  swept  from  the  ranks 
which  he  ornaments  as  well  as  defends :  when 
literature  is  bereft  of  its  firmest  and  loftiest  pillar : 
when  the  illustrious  physician  bows  to  the  stroke 
which  he  has  averted  from  the  hearts  of  others  ; 
and  when  the  useful  divine,  cut  off  in  the  prime 
of  his  usefulness,  resigns  the  earthly  for  the  hea- 
venly fold  of  his  Redeemer,  are  we  not  taught 
the  fallacy  of  human  policy,  and  the  vanity  of 
the  wisest  calculations?  These  pillars  are  re- 
moved, that  we  may  perceive  that  they  are  not 
our  supports: — These  luminaries  are  quench- 
ed, that  we  may  realize,  they  are  not  the  source 
of  wisdom.  Powerful  means,  like  these,  must 
be  used  to  eradicate  our  worldly  dependence, 
and  found  our  hopes  on  a  better  and  more 
durable  foundation.  The  heart  must  be  often 
wrung  with  disappointment,  that  the  mind 
may  contemplate  a  superintending  Providence 
— an  Omniscient  Intelligence  controlling  our 
concerns,  eliciting  good  from  evil,  light  from 
darkness,  and  consolation  from  the  thorns  of 
sorrow. 


IU 

fc 

The  death  of  the  illustrious  tends  to  excite  a 
spirit  of  public  sympathy.  Oppressed  by  its  own 
griefs,  the  heart  is  too  selfish  to  feel  for  the  public 
weal,  and  make  its  interests,  in  any  degree,  its 
own.  In  lamenting  the  departure  of  a  great  man, 
devoted  to  the  public  good,  all  are  led  to  feel  their 
relation  to  the  community ;  and  in  sympathizing 
for  the  loss  of  one  equally  endeared  to  all,  they 
foster  a  sympathetic  spirit  in  the  distresses  of 
others.  The  illustrious  dead  are  regarded  as  a 
sort  of  family  relative.  They  are  the  ties  which 
entwine  the  reserve  of  ignorance  with  the  warmth 
of  consanguinity,  and  connect  the  enjoyments  of 
private  life  with  those  of  the  community.  They 
are  the  common  centres  about  which  the  public 
hopes  and  fears  revolve ;  and  if  they  expire,  like 
fallen  stars,  in  darkness,  while  every  eye  is  fasten- 
ed on  them,  it  is  no  wonder  that  the  tears  of 
mourning  should  stream  from  every  eye. 

".:,-J-vi; .?..,.;?  .Oifij&'lijfc 

In  the  demise  of  the  great,  we  contemplate 
the  intellectual  glory  to  which  they  have  been 
admitted.  Though  towering  far  beyond  the 
mind  of  the  multitude,  they  were  still  imperfect 
beings,  dazzled  by  the  same  phantoms,  deceived 
by  the  same  hopes,  and  limited  by  the  same  nar- 


135 

row  boundaries.  Embued  with  the  literature  and 
erudition  of  the  age,  they  felt  the  infancy  of 
mind,  and  the  barriers  which  opposed  its  perfec- 
tion. To  suppose  that  those  faculties  are  torpid, 
and  those  principles  dead,  would  be  an  imputation 
on  the  goodness  of  the  Supreme  Being.  It  is  a 
conclusion,  warranted  by  supernatural  testimony, 
that  they  have  joined  kindred  spirits  in  the 
light  of  celestial  intelligence,  and  are  exercising 
their  faculties  in  the  highest  possible  perfec- 
tion. As  every  thing  in  nature  rises  to  its 
level,  so  the  intellect  of  the  pious  will  seek  its 
own  element  in  glory.  Occupied  in  a  sphere 
adapted  to  its  capacities,  the  soul  may  cultivate 
its  own  peculiar  taste,  only  freed  from  the  corrup- 
tions enfettering  mortality.  Why  may  not  the 
distinguished  in  intellect  mingle  together  in  ce- 
lestial unison,  and  "  differing  from  others  as  other 
stars  in  glory,"  be  especially  favoured  with  the 
contemplation  of  those  mysteries,  to  be  hidden 
perhaps  from  less  aspiring  minds  ?  What  a  re- 
fined association,  when  the  bards  of  profane, 
shall  mingle  their  pious  songs  with  those  of  sa- 
cred poetry :  when  the  holy  historians,  philoso- 
phers, and  literaries  of  all  ages  and  nations  shall 
commune  together  in  mind :  when  the  wise,  the 


eloquent,  and  the  powerful  of  the  earth,  shall 
meet  the  apostles,  the  prophets,  and  the  princes 
of  inspiration !  It  will  be  an  intellectual  feast 
worthy  of  enkindling  our  most  burning  anticipa- 
tions ;  for  their  expansion  of  faculty  must  equal 
their  glory.  No  mortal  eloquence  can  describe 
such  a  meeting !  not  the  loftiest  angel  could  de- 
pict the  heart-entrancing  blessedness  that  must 
emanate  from  a  state  like  this  ! 

It  is  profitable  to  meditate  upon  the  illustrious 
dead,  that  the  heart  may  be  excited  to  imitate 
their  virtues.  We  are  more  satisfied  with  ad- 
miring than  rivalling  the  excellent.  Cold  senti- 
ments evaporate  from  the  lips,  but  virtuous  princi- 
ples seldom  take  root  in  the  heart.  We  think 
that  the  height  of  the  illustrious  is  too  lofty  to 
reach;  and  commending  them  for  supernatural 
gifts,  we  are  cowardly  contented  to  occupy  the 
valley.  But  we  should  remember,  that  the  de- 
servedly renowned  are  often  more  indebted  to 
persevering  industry,  than  remarkable  mental  en- 
dowments; and  that  it  is  in  the  cultivation  of 
the  faculty  in  which  we  excel,  that  we  may  be 
enabled  to  attain  greatness  of  character.  But  it 
is  not  by  a  single  step  that  the  lofty  mountain  is 


137 

ascended,  but  by  gradual  advances  unremittingly 
up  its  side.  Thousands  that  have  gone  before  us, 
may  ascribe  their  success  to  progressive  attain- 
ments in  wisdom  and  virtue ;  and  myriads  that 
will  come  after  us,  will  arrive  by  the  same  road, 
to  conspicuity. 

What  should  then  retard  our  pace,  or  in- 
timidate our  exertions  ?  We  are  not  required  to 
pursue  the  bubble  reputation,  which  breaks  as 
soon  as  formed,  but  the  honourable  distinction  of 
great  and  good  men,  who  laboured  more  to  de- 
serve than  seek  after  fame.  The  example  they 
have  taught,  shines  before  us  like  a  pillar  of  fire, 
to  encourage  our  advances.  We  feel  the  world 
trembling  and  crumbling  beneath  us;  and  we 
hear  the  death  bell  of  our  hopes  on  every  passing 
breeze.  We  see  that  nothing  is  immortal  but 
lives  devoted  to  usefulness  and  piety,  in  enlight- 
ening the  wanderer,  solacing  the  mourner,  and 
alleviating  the  toils  of  the  pilgrimage  of  life. 
Let  no  earthly  fascination,  no  corrupting  senti- 
ment, no  hollow  example,  seduce  us  from  the 
narrow  path,  and  plunge  us  into  whirlpools  of  in- 
evitable ruin.  As  citizens  of  heaven,  aspiring 
after  an  immortal  crown,  let  us  vigorously  press 

No.  V.— 2 


138 

ibrward  to  our  imperishable  reward.  Then,  whe- 
ther living  in  obscurity,  we  pine  away  in  poverty 
and  neglect :  though  our  names  are  ungraven  on 
obelisks,  or  monuments,  yet  we  shall  live  in  the 
affections  of  the  amiable  and  the  virtuous ;  we 
shall  receive  the  commendation  of  the  searcher 
of  hearts;  and  on  every  bosom  shall  our  epitaph 
be  written : — 

They  have  gone  from  the  world  in  the  light  of  their  fame, 
Like  the  star  that  is  lost  in  the  morning's  pure  fiame, 

The  brightest  that  shone  at  even : 
But  they  live  in  the  home  of  the  blessed  on  high. 
And  their  star  is  now  hid  in  the  glorious  sky, 

By  the  holy  light  of  heaven. 


OR   THE 


INDIAN'S  CAVE. 


The  murmuring  of  the  sea-shore  was  a  hymn 
Sung  by  sweet  voices :  every  chafd  pebble 
Rang  with  a  crystal  tinkling  as  it  roll'd. 

AxHERsrom 


,  THE  human  mind,  panting  after  enjoyment, 
courts  every  variety  of  occupation  and  scene. 
Enervated  by  pleasure,  we  seek  the  shades  of 
meditation :  wearied  by  business,  we  retire  to  the 
stillness  of  solitude :  oppressed  by  the  robes  of 
ambition,  we  mingle  in  domestic  scenes,  and  find, 
in  the  friends  of  our  bosom,  the  comforts  denied 
by  the  world.  The  eye  wearies  with  reposing  on 
the  fairy  landscape,  the  dimpling  river,  or  the 
soft  blue  heaven  spangled  with  its  crown  of  stars, 
but  wanders  among  dreary  mountains,  caverns, 
and  volcanoes ;  pauses  at  the  seashore,  and  drinks 
ir>  its  wild  tempestuous  scenery;  or  it  pierces 


through  the  innumerable  systems,  peopling  the  so- 
litude of  space.  This  adaptation  of  circumstances 
to  the  varying  moods  we  indulge,  not  only  ar- 
gues an  overruling  Providence,  but  the  limitless 
powers  of  the  soul.  It  shows,  that  there  is 
nothing  beneath  heaven  which  can  satisfy  the 
heart;  that  every  station  we  take  discovers  a 
higher,  and  still  higher  in  prospect ;  and  although 
lost  in  the  immensity  of  our  conceptions,  we  still 
dare  to  penetrate  the  fathomless  regions  beyond. 

Every  large  city  is  generally  endowed  by 
nature  with  charming  romantic  retreats,  ap- 
parently intended  to  gratify  this  propensity. 
Among  the  enviable  resorts  frequented  by  the 
citizens  of  Boston,  is  the  little  peninsula  of  Na- 
hant,  joining  the  township  of  Ljnn,  and  am- 
bitiously jutting  out  into  the  bay,  as  if  vying  with 
the  main  land  in  warding  off  the  incursions  of 
the  sea.  To  a  person  approaching  it  by  land,  it 
appears  like  an  arm  stretched  out  to  welcome  his 
arrival ;  whilst  the  timid  might  construe  it  as  a 
token  of  warning  to  guard  him  from  the  dangers 
which  yawn  around.  Of  a  still  calm  day,  it  swells 
out  upon  the  bosom  of  the  bay,  lifting  its  gray 
rocks  above  the  smeoth  mirror  of  the  water. 


141 

which,  darkened  by  their  angry  scowl,  resembles 
virtue  overshadowed  by  the  trials  of  adversity.  But 
when  a  strong  east  wind  beats  upon  the  ocean, 
it  more  resembles  an  island  attacked  on  all  sides 
by  the  waves,  and  bravely  defending  itself  by  its 
towers  of  rocks  which  rise  defyingly  around  it. 
Though  it  is  delightfully  accessible  by  water,  yet  a 
visit  by  land  is  far  more  agreeable ;  as  the  prospect 
is  diversified  by  a  fine  view  of  Boston  harbour 
— the  numerous  bridges  connecting  the  opposite 
sides — the  beautiful  village  of  Charlestown,  and 
the  famous  Bunker  hill,  near  which  the  tra- 
veller passes ;  and  then  the  fine  Salem  turnpike, 
beautified  with  country-seats,  churches,  and  vil- 
lages, until  we  arrive  by  a  bye-road  in  full  view  of 
the  ocean  to  the  north ;  while  to  the  right  a  white 
level  beach  sweeps  more  than  a  mile  and  a  half 
to  the  south-west,  forming  a  narrow  isthmus  join- 
ing the  peninsula  of  Nahant,  which  seems  from 
the  agitation  of  the  sand,  to  be  entirely  inacces- 
sible except  by  water.  To  ride  over  the  beach 
on  a  strong  west  windy  day,  the  foaming  surges 
rolling  in  silvery  ranks,  and  breaking  along  the 
shore — the  white  clouds  of  sand,  of  various 
shades,  flitting  rapidly  by  like  a  river  towards  the 
ocean — and  then  the  roaring  wind  pouring  over 


the  dreary  waste,  makes  you  fancy  yourself  riding 
on  the  very  sea  itself;  and  frequently  dizzied  by 
the  motion  of  the  rapid  sands,  you  can  scarcely 
perceive  that  you  are  moving.  There  is  some- 
thing powerfully  impressive  in  the  observa- 
tion of  wild  ocean  scenery.  We  rise  above 
ourselves-— we  forget  the  petty  pursuits  and  vani- 
ties of  the  world — we  seem  to  view  the  Deity  in 
the  union  of  sky  and  water,  and  hear  the  whis- 
pers of  eternity  in  the  dying  of  the  waves  upon 
the  shore.  As  in  the  moral  world,  seasons  of 
adversity  are  peculiarly  adapted  to  improve  the 
pious  mourner,  so  it  is  beautifully  ordered,  that 
gloomy  contrasts,  in  the  physical,  tend  to  elevate 
the  soul  in  wisdom  and  goodness. 

After  crossing  Bass  neck,  which  suddenly  winds 
to  the  north,  a  smaller  beach  is  passed  conduct- 
ing immediately  to  great  Nahant,  consisting  of 
about  three  hundred  acres  of  cultivated  land  and 
a  number  of  dwelling  houses,  occupied  as  inns? 
for  the  reception  of  visiters  in  the  summer.  A 
spacious  hotel  has  been  erected  at  the  north  end, 
about  three  stories  high,  surrounded  by  a  double 
range  of  porticoes,  and  furnished  with  bathing 
houses,  and  other  resorts  of  amusement  for  those 


143 

who  have  more  taste  for  worldly  gayety  than  the 
sublime  enjoyment  of  natural  phenomena.  On 
the  western  side  appears  the  beautiful  village  of 
Lynn ;  and  farther  beyond,  within  a  distant  pro- 
montory, the  busy  town  of  Marblehead,  swept 
upon  the  east  by  a  bold  strait  of  sea,  several  miles 
in  extent;  and  then  the  eye  moves  along  the 
opposite  side,  down  Boston  bay,  among  shelving 
coves,  projecting  cliffs,  and  irregular  winding 
shores.  The  borders  of  this  peninsula  are  one 
continued  mass  of  iron-bound  rocks,  thrown  into 
the  most  irregular  postures,  and,  seemingly,  the 
effects  of  one  of  those  earthquakes,  said  to  have 
visited  Massachusetts  more  than  two  centuries 
ago.  Here  nature  appears  in  her  wildest  and 
most  beautiful  attire.  A  noble  river  bearing  on 
its  bosom  the  commerce  of  the  east — villages 
gladdening  the  distant  view  with  their  spires  re- 
posing upon  the  green  of  the  shadowy  landscape 
— bold,  lively  shores  rising  and  tapering  into  the 
wildest  irregularity — the  dark  blue  sea  beyond 
apparently  embraced  by  the  sky,  and  occasionally 
enlivened  by  a  dim  snowy  sail  fluttering  on  the  blue 
of  the  perspective — the  torn,  rugged  rocks  around, 
— the  roar  of  the  waves  dashing  among  the 
cliffs — the  shrill  cry  of  the  sea-gull  and  other  wild 

,* 

>• 


144 

birds  joining  the  loud  concert  of  the  ocean,  ren- 
der this  spot  the  most  agreeable  and  most  ro- 
mantic of  scenes. 

On  the  northern  banks  of  this  peninsula  is  a 
chasm  nearly  thirty  feet  in  depth,  which,  from  the 
violent  rushing  in  of  the  water  at  about  half-tide, 
and  the  noisy  gush  with  which  it  is  accompanied, 
is  distinguished  by  the  appellation  of  "the  spouting 
horn."  Towards  the  eastern  extremity  is  a  sin- 
gular curiosity  known  by  the  name  of  the  "  natu- 
ral bridge."  It  is  formed  over  a  cavity  between  two 
solid  rocks,  which  look  towards  the  sea,  and  join 
by  an  oblique  cleft  of  stone  seemingly  torn  from  the 
general  mass,  and  obstinately  contending  for  its 
right  to  the  parent  sides.  You  look  down  a  narrow 
ravine  about  fifty  feet  deep,  between  shattered 
cliffs,  and  wild  verdant  shrubbery,  and  a  view  is 
caught  of  the  ocean  waves  rolling  their  frothy 
surf  to  the  shore.  One  could  sit  for  hours 
musing  upon  the  rocks  below, — here  rising  into 
mimic  hills^there  sinking  into  vallies-^-now 
frowning  into  precipices— then  towering  aloft  into 
mountain-like  boldness,  and  hemming  in  their 
dark  shade  the  restless  waters  beneath  them. 
The  waves  continually  dashing  among  the  rocks 


present  the  most  interesting  spectacle.  In  some 
places,  where  these  are  high,  and  scooped  out  into 
excavations,  the  eye  reposes  upon  diminutive 
lakes,  occasionally  flurried  by  the  eddying  wind  and 
spray.  When  lower,  and  guarded  from  the  sea  by 
a  sloping  mass,  they  present  small  stagnant  fens 
and  pools,  covered  by  sea-weeds  and  moss,  wait- 
ing only  for  the  incursion  of  the  next  tide  to  sweep 
them  into  existence.  Amid  the  slanting  gulleys, 
numerous  streamlets,  supplied  by  reservoirs  con- 
tinually filled  by  the  sea,  wind  and  rush  along, 
bearing  on  their  narrow  bosom  the  tributary 
freight  of  twigs  and  sea-weed  to  the  beach — then 
they  are  broken  off  into  mimic  cascades,  eddies, 
and  whirlpools,  until  weary  of  tossing  and  con- 
tending with  each  other,  they-  insensibly  mingle 
with  the  floods  of  the  approaching  tide.  The 
contemplation  of  such  a  scene  is  a  beautiful  con- 
trast to  the  sublimity  of  ocean  prospect.  It  is 
like  the  moral  variety  that  chequers  the  path  of 
life.  There  are  moments  when  seas  of  affliction 
lower  and  rage  around  the  soul — but  then  Pro- 
vidence always  affords  some  gleams  of  consola- 
tion-— some  green  and  pleasurable  prospect  on 
which  the  heart  may  delight  to  rest. 
No.  V.— 3 


146 

At  the  southern  extremity,  nearly  at  the  verge 
of  the  shore,  is  situated  the  phenomenon  deno- 
minated "  the  Swallow's  Cave."  Descending  from 
the  bank,  along  the  steep  gravelly  hill,  the  path 
suddenly  turns  a  high  shadowy  projection,  into 
a  deep,  Gothic-like  excavation  about  five  feet 
high,  and  pursues,  through  the  solid  rock,  a  dis- 
tance of  about  twenty-four  yards.     The  ceiling 
is  earved  by  nature  into  tall  but  irregular  Gothic 
arches,  and  rises  through  the  whole  passage  from 
eighteen  to  twenty  feet.     The  sides  are  ruggedly 
perpendicular,  and  the  floor  uneven  by  its  ele- 
vations and  cavities.     Perpetual  humidity  reigns 
in  this  dreary  cavern,  from  the  continual  drop- 
pings of  water  through  the  crevices  of  the  ceiling. 
There  is  a  slight  .bend  in  this  singular  cave,  and 
through  a  fissure  of  rocks  from  which  one  enjoys  a 
fine  view  of  the  sea,  you  step  along  the  rugged 
beach,  and  grope  your  way  up  the  opposite  side  of 
the  hill  to  that  you  just  descended.     It  is  called 
"  the  Swallow's  Cave"  from  the  great  number  of 
that  species  which  hatch  their  young,  and  inhabit 
there  the  greatest  part  of  the  year,  and  are  even 
said  to  exist  in  it  during  winter,  in  a  completely 
torpid  state.     From  a  circumstance,  said  to  have 
happened  there  about  two  hundred  years  ago. 


147 

when  the  primitive  settlers  of  Massachusetts  were 
embroiled  in  war  with  the  Indians,  it  may  be 
more  properly  distinguished  by  the  appellation  of 
"  the  Indian's  Cave." 

The  wars  of  king  Philip,  Sachem  of  the  Wam- 
panoags,  with  the  original  settlers  of  New- 
England,  filled  it  with  terror,  devastation,  and 
blood.  Jealous  of  the  growing  wealth  and  in- 
fluence of  the  English,  and  exasperated  at  the 
diminution  of  their  paternal  territory  and  privi- 
leges, the  Indians  took  occasion,  from  the  execu- 
tion of  three  of  their  people,  to  open  an  imme- 
diate warfare.  The  whole  contest  consisted  in  a 
series  of  ambushes,  skirmishes,  and  skulking 
battles,  requiring  the  most  undaunted  courage 
and  finesse ;  and  such  as  distinguished  Captain 
Church,  who  was  remarkably  successful  in  the 
war.  Sometimes  Philip  and  his  people  would 
secretly  attack  the  settlements  and  villages,  and 
put  to  death  many  of  their  peaceful  inhabitants : 
often  they  would  swarm  the  country  in  search  of 
plunder — consume  the  dwelling-houses — carry 
away  their  families,  and  treat  them  with  every 
kind  of  cruelty,  and  commit  all  those  barbarous 
outrages  congenial  to  their  method  of  warfare. 


148 

Much  may  be  offered  in  their  extenuation,  wheo 
we  recollect  the  wrongs  they  endured ;  in  being 
driven  from  their  native  soil,  in  beholding  their 
hunting-grounds  wrested  from  their  possession, 
and  in  their  everlasting  alienation  from  the 
homes  of  their  childhood.  Where  is  the  patriot 
who  would  not  thus  have  been  aroused  to  shed 
his  dying  blood,  at  the  loss  of  his  liberty,  his 
commonwealth,  and  his  home ! 

About  this  time  an  attack  was  apprehended  by 
the  peaceful  inhabitants  of  Lynn.  They  were 
mostly  a  colony  of  Friends,  mingled  with  a  large 
body  of  Puritans,  who,  strongly  tinctured  by  the 
superstition  of  the  times,  attributed  their  calami- 
ties to  their  own,  or  their  ancestors'  crimes. 
Witchcraft,  at  this  period,  maintaining  considera- 
ble sway  in  the  New-England  colonies,  many  old 
women  not  only  professed  demoniacal  inspira- 
tion, but  the  power  of  divination,  with  regard  to 
public  and  domestic  events.  Numerous  atmos- 
pherical phenomena  happening  about  this  time, 
gave  a  kindred  tone  to  the  feelings  of  the  people; 
and  battles,  earthquakes,  and  deaths,  were  as 
accurately  determined  by  second  sight,  as  if  the 
facts  themselves  had  actually  occurred.  It  had 


149 

been  publicly  reported,  that  a  large  body  of  In- 
dians were  in  ambush  around  the  village.  Some- 
times, several  were  said  to  have  been  skulking  in 
the  environs — at  others,  near  the  sea-shore — then 
the  report  of  musketry,  and  the  shrill  war-whoop 
of  savages  would  terrify  the  listener,  and  some 
of  the  inhabitants  would  be  swept  from  their 
families.  The  people  were  kept  in  continual  dis- 
quiet. Constantly  under  arms,  they  never  knew 
when  they  should  be  attacked ;  and  they  dreaded 
to  be  off  their  guard,  lest  they  might  be  surprised 
by  a  party  of  Indians.  One  night,  the  villagers 
were  aroused  by  the  war-cry  of  the  enemy ;  the 
discharge  of  fire-arms  was  heard  at  a  distance  ; 
and  about  forty  Narragansets  made  their  ap- 
pearance. The  Lynnites  charged  so  vigorously 
upon  them,  that,  panic  struck  by  the  attack,  they 
fled  towards  the  sea,  in  the  direction  of  Nahant, 
and  were  soon  lost  sight  of  in  the  darkness  of 
the  night.  These  assaults  became  so  annoying 
that,  scarcely  a  night,  some  dwelling  was  not 
burned,  or  some  one  found  dead  or  missing  in  the 
morning.  Public  measures  were  devised  to  pre- 
vent these  depredations.  But  who  should  pursue 
the  enemy,  and  attack  them  in  their  own  for- 
tresses? Where  were  they  to  be  found?  and 


150 

who  should  be  the  guide  to  discover  their  retreat? 
There  was  a  bold  fellow,  captain  of  a  troop  of 
infantry,  who  agreed  to  go  upon  the  expedition, 
with  a  volunteer  corps  of  twenty-five  men.  As 
the  utmost  caution  was  necessary,  they  were  not 
to  whisper  a  syllable  of  their  intention,  but  set 
off  the  following  night  on  the  object  of  their  em- 
bassy. They  were  all  armed  with  broad-swords 
and  muskets ;  and  each  one,  for  safety's  sake, 
carried  a  bible  in  his  right,  and  the  Westminster 
catechism  in  his  left  pocket.  As  a  pilot  to  their 
course,  they  resolved  to  consult  a  knowing  old 
witch,  by  the  name  of-"  Wonderful ;"  a  harmless, 
keen-tongued  woman,  that  lived,  near  the  Salem 
shore,  by  fortune-telling;  discovering  lost  pro- 
perty, and  predicting  many  odd  events,  even  by 
the  roll  of  a  cow's  eye,  or  the  curling  of  the 
smoke  about  her  chimney.  She  was  always  ap- 
plied to  in  every  emergency ;  and  what  could  be 
more  important  than  the  protection  of  their  lives 
from  the  Indians  ?  It  was  a  dismal  night,  when 
the  cavalcade  halted  at  the  ruinous -looking  hut ; 
but  they  found  the  attentive  "  Wonderful"  leaning 
on  the  creaking  under-door,  as  if  anxiously  wait- 
ing for  their  arrival.  The  dim  light  of  a  candle 
was  seen  flaring  on  a  crazy  sort  of  a  table  be- 


151 

hind  her,  and  gave  her  whole  profile  such  a 
ghastly  appearance,  that  she  might  have  been  al- 
most mistaken  for  an  inhabitant  of  the  lower 
world.  "Welcome,  my  brave  soldiers,"  cried 
the  dark  withered  dame,  leering  her  small  gray 
eyes  expressively  upon  the  leader, — "  success  to 
the  enterprise  you  have  undertaken,  to  defend  your 
land  !  There  is  plenty  of  game,  I  warrant,  where 
so  many  fowlers  are  ready  with  their  pieces !  But 
I  know  where  they  are,"  whispered  she  in  a  slow, 
drawling  tone ;  and  the  candle  near  the  door,  that 
instant,  was  extinguished  by  a  gust  of  wind — 
"  and  before  to-morrow's  sun,  you'll  be  sure  of 
the  wild,  yelling  devils !"  "  Hark !  comrades,  are 
we  betrayed,"  said  the  eagle-eyed  Captain,  with  his 
hand  upon  his  sword,  looking  round  as  he  spoke ; 
but,  raising  his  voice,  he  added, — "  Take  care 
what  you  say, 4  Wonderful,'  to  an  up-and-down 
son  of  old  England,  or,  confound  me,  witch, 
you'll  wish,  to  your  sorrow,  you  had  a  shorter 
tongue !"  "  Ods,  bugs !"  shrieked  out  the  withered 
hag,  "  I  have  not  lived  these  three-score  years  to 
be  laughed  to  scorn  by  a  blustering  soldier  of 
thirty !  I  tell  you  then,  that  you  are  after  the  In- 
dians ;  and  that  you  will  find  them,  forty  in  num- 
ber, on  the  Nahant  shore,  waiting  to  dip  theiy 


152 

tomahawks  in  the  blood  of  your  families !  I  have 
been  counting  the  clouds  all  this  past  week — I 
have  watched  the  motions  of  the  cattle — and  the 
curling  of  the  smoke,  that  wildly  blew  towards 
the  Great  Neck,  made  me  morally  certain  that 
something  terrible  is  brewing : — 

"  Mingle — mingle — mingle — mingle — 
Away — apart — together — single — 
The  Indians  on  the  shore  you'll  see — 
Your  death  or  life — remember  me !" 


She  bolted  the  door  in  their  faces,  and  with  des- 
perate courage,  they  betook  themselves  to  the 
great  beach,  joining  the  peninsula  of  Nahant. 
The  dark  sea  was  beating  upon  the  shore  its  tu- 
multuous waters — the  loud  west  wind  sweeping 
over  its  sandy  plain,  caused  its  surface  to  resem- 
ble a  snow-drifted  field — then  it  would  roar  along 
the  sides  of  some  pent  up  hill,  causing  the  dry 
weeds  and  brushwood  to  rattle;  and  again  it 
would  die  away  like  the  spent  groans  of  some 
one  in  pain.  The  seeming  island  before  them 
resembled  a  black  stormy  cloud,  resting  on  the 
river ;  and  not  a  single  ray  of  light  glimmered  on 
either  of  the  party.  "  Are  you  ready  men,  to 
stand  by  me  and  die?"  demanded  the  gallant 


153 

Commander,  pausing  to  search  for  the  road, 
almost  buried  in  the  drifting  sand.  "  Aye,  aye,r 
exclaimed  twenty  voices  at  once,  fixing  on  their 
bayonets  to  as  many  muskets,  and  preparing  to 
draw  from  their  scabbards  the  same  number 
of  clumsy  swords.  "  Follow  me,  then,  my  boys," 
was  the  reply,  "  to  the  Nahant  shore ;  and 
I  will  go  and  reconnoitre;  and  let  the  report 
of  my  pistol  be  the  signal  for  you  to  advance." 
"  Agreed  !"  cried  the  wfoble  party  at  once ;  and, 
after  cautiously  moving  along  under  the  shadow 
of  the  lofty  rocks,  they  arrived  at  last  under  the 
natural  bridge  that  overshadows  the  easterly 
shore  of  the  peninsula.  The  tall  acclivities  on 
either  side  were  hemmed  in  by  the  hill  behind ; 
and  observation  was  partially  excluded  from  above 
by  the  rugged  cleft  that  crowned  the  top.  A  wind- 
ing, gulleyed  path  led  around  the  rock  to  the 
brow  of  the  steep  eminence  from  below ;  and  there 
was  no  danger  of  being  surprised,  without  suffi- 
cient opportunity  of  ascertaining  the  strength  of 
the  enemy,  and  secreting,  or  escaping,  just  as 
the  occasion  served.  Here  the  party  was  left,  by 
its  intrepid  commander,  who  silently  withdrew  to 
search  after  the  Indians.  A  full  hour  elapsed, 
and  still  no  step  was  heard  among  the  gravel. 
No.  V.— 4 


"Where  can  our  Captain  be  staying?"  every 
tongue  inquired : — "  he  has  either  been  scalped 
by  one  of  the  red-faces — or  has  fallen  off  some 
rock  into  the  rapid  current  below !" — A  light 
footstep  was  heard  cautiously  treading  upon  the 
stone  bridge  above,  and  appeared  as  if  clamber- 
ing, and  striving  to  gain  a  higher  footing.  "  That 
surely  is  not  our  Commander,"  whispered  one  of 
the  company, "  for  he  would  not  be  so  foolhardy  as 
to  expose  himself  to  observation ;  and  besides, 
who  would  think  of  finding  the  red  boys  on  the 
high,  flat  banks  of  the  river  ?"  "  True,"  replied 
another  ;  but  further  inquiry  was  suspended,  when 
some  loose  gravel  and  stones  were  heard  falling 
from  the  sides  of  the  precipice ;  and  through  the 
torn  excavations  between  the  bridge  and  hill,  the 
profile  of  a  tall  figure  was  seen  moving  among 
the  bushes;  and  then  it  stood  still,  as  if  lis- 
tening to  every  breath  of  sound.  The  veiling 
clouds  hid  every  star  from  view — the  waves  of 
the  Atlantic  broke  almost  at  the  feet  of  the  sol- 
diers— there  was  nothing  before  them  but  the 
sea,  which  the  darkness  identified  with  the  sky ; 
and  the  whole  scene,  like  the  object  of  their 
mission,  appeared  enveloped  in  perilous  uncer- 
tainty. "  Hark !  what  noise  is  that  Heroche?"  de- 
manded a  rough  voice  above  them, — "  I  certainlv 


saw  an  English  soldier  skulking  among  these 
rocks !" — "  Impossible !"  returned  the  other,  "  do 
you  suppose  any  white  man  would  be  so  daring, 
as  to  venture  in  our  thickets,  and  expose  his  na- 
ked head  to  the  tomahawk  of  an  Indian?  No, 
no ;"  he  added  with  a  screeching  laugh, "  the  white 
man  is  no  such  fool!"  "  Pontiac,"  resumed  the 
other,  "  are  the  tomahawks  all  sharpened,  and  our 
guns  all  ready?" — "To  be  sure  they  are,"  re- 
plied the  other,  "  the  Indians'  wrongs  are  deep 
and  hot — they  require  sharp  hatchets  to  reach 
them — and  much  blood  to  cool  our  feverish 
brains !" — All  again  was  still ;  the  sound  of  their 
voices  and  footsteps  died  upon  the  ear ;  and  the 
first  suggestion  of  some  of  the  band  was  to 
search  for,  and  attack  the  individuals :  but  ma- 
ture reflection  taught  them  that  it  was  their  duty 
to  await  the  return  of  their  Commander ;  and  that 
the  pursuit  of  but  two  of  the  enemy  might  ex- 
pose them  to  the  assaults  of  hundreds.  The 
absence  of  their  leader  became  alarmingly 
tedious :  they  thought  they  heard  his  approach 
in  every  rustling  leaf — in  every  sliding  pebble  : — 
"  Hark !  do  you  not  hear  their  war-dance  ?"  in- 
quired one. — "  No,"  replied  a  listener,  "  I  only 
hear  the  roar  of  the  spouting  horn,  or  the  sighing 
of  the  wind  along  the  cavities." — "  But  what  is 


156 

that  ?"  said  another.  "  It  is  only  the  point  of  a 
gray  rock,  broken  off  by  the  ocean.  And  see 
how  that  cedar  waves  at  its  side,  like  •some  tall 
Indian,  to  waylay  the  traveller  !" — The  wind  par- 
tially subsided,  and  the  dim,  cold  sky  became 
lighted  by  a  streak  of  stars,  through  a  long  broken 
cloud  from  the  ocean.  At  this  moment  a  light, 
cautious  tread  was  heard  upon  the  beach ;  and, 
in  a  moment,  the  Captain  rejoined  his  troop, 
commanding  them  to  follow  him  in  breathless 
silence.  They  had  hardly  turned  the  brow  of  the 
hill,  when  they  perceived  a  gigantic  figure,  skulk- 
ing among  the  rocks,  and,  in  an  instant,  he  was 
gone  ;  but  where,  it  was  impossible  to  discover. 
"  Shall  we  fire  at  him,  Captain  ?"  interrogated  a 
low  voice.  "  Your  life  depends  on  silence,"  whis- 
pered the  cautious  leader,  glancing  narrowly 
around ;  "  so  you  have  only  to  hide  behind  this 
cavity ;  and  whenever  you  hear  my  blunderbuss, 
hasten  and  fire  upon  the  enemy  within  that  nar- 
row chasm.  He  pointed  to  the  spot,  now  called 
"the  Swallow's  Cave,"  and  his  compliant  troop 
sunk  down,  prepared,  behind  the  sides  of  the  hol- 
low hill.  Hearing  an  approaching  step,  he  spied, 
at  the  angle  of  the  projection,  an  Indian  entering 
into  the  natural  cavern ;  and  he  rapidly  hurried 
to  give  the  signal  of  alarm  to  his  men.  Clam- 


157 

bering  silently  along  by  the  edge  of  the  chasm, 
he  saw,  once  more,  within  it,  a  number  of  Indians 
asleep  upon  the  rocky  floor.  A  small  fire  was 
burning  at  the  farther  end,  and  two  gigantic  fel- 
lows, one  of  whom  seemed  to  be  the  chieftain, 
were  examining  the  edges  of  their  hatchets,  and 
the  ammunition  in  their  pouches.  The  other 
was  apparently  listening,  but  hearing  only  the 
moaning  wind,  he  fell  in  a  half  recumbent  posture, 
regarding  his  companions,  whom  an  instant's 
warning  could  awaken.  "  Curses  light  upon  the 
cruel  English !"  said  one  of  them ;  "  to-morrow's 
sun,  I  trust,  will  set  upon  them  for  ever ;  whoever 
flies  from  the  spot  before  they  are  sacrificed,  shall 
be  scalped,  in  the  morning,  and  his  body  hung 
upon  a  pole."  The  Captain  could  wait  no  longer, 
but  aiming  at  the  chief,  whose  death  might  de- 
cide the  contest,  he  heard  a  step  at  his  side,  and 
felt  his  arm  pulled  back  by  a  person,  he  perceived 
to  be  a  woman.  Her  face  was  wrinkled  and 
gaunt ;  her  motion  slow,  but  firm ;  and,  muffled  up 
like  a  spectre,  she  beckoned  the  soldier  to  follow. 
It  was  a  moment  of  singular  suspense.  It  was 
at  the  dead  hour  of  midnight ;  and  certain  of  its 
being  a  messenger  from  the  grave,  he  resolutely 
accompanied  the  figure.  They  gained  the  brow 
of  the  hill,  and,  raising  the  mantle  from  her  head. 


which  revealed  the  snowy  locks  of  three-score 
and  ten  years,  she  spoke : — "  I  am  no  appari- 
tion, Captain,  but  I  am  only  4  Wonderful,'  come 
to  implore  you  to  shed  no  blood.  What !  would 
you  cowardly  murder  these  poor  wretches  in  their 
sleep,  when  you  have  it  in  your  power  to  secure 
them  in  a  far  more  honourable  way  ?  I  promise, 
on  one  condition,  to  deliver  the  enemy  into  your 
hand,  without  the  loss  of  a  single  drop  of  blood." 
The  Captain  solemnly  pledged  his  word,  if  com- 
patible with  honourable  war.  "  Then  wait  here !" 
exclaimed  'Wonderful,'  for  the  Indians  are  at 
your  mercy."  In  a  moment  she  was  out  of  sight. 
What  was  to  be  done  ?  The  most  perplexing 
suspicions  crossed  the  mind  of  the  soldier. 
Could  it  be  a  stratagem  to  entrap  him?  Had 
he  not  better  alarm  his  men  ? — But  then  the  pro- 
bability of  endangering  the  scheme  of  the  enemy's 
capture,  and  besides  the  well-known  integrity 
of  "  Wonderful,"  urged  him  to  await  in  silence, 
the  result  of  the  adventure.  After  something 
like  an  Indian  shout,  he  thought  that  he  distin- 
guished the  low  notes  of  conversation ;  then  it 
died  away,  and  again  it  was  resumed  in  louder 
and  more  earnest  tones.  Fearful  of  surprise,  he 
stood  with  one  foot  on  the  side  of  the  hill,  pre- 
pared to  alarm  his  troop,  in  case  of  accident  or 


159 

treachery.  He  perceived,  at  length,  trom  the 
pinnacles  of  the  gray  rocks,  two  persons  ad- 
vancing ;  and,  on  their  nearer  approach,  recog- 
nised an  Indian  under  the  guidance  of  the  witch. 
The  Captain,  with  his  hand  upon  his  blunderbuss, 
boldly  advanced  somewhat  nearer  to  the  parties. 
" Whiteman !"  the  Indian  chief  exclaimed,  "an 
Indian  knows  both  bravery  and  gratitude.  Our 
mother  informed  us,  you  approached,  like  the  lion, 
our  sleeping  party,  and,  with  his  magnanimity, 
you  spared  our  lives.  You  first  unsheathed  the 
tomahawk,  but  we  desire  to  bury  it.  Why  cause 
the  poor  Indians'  hearts  to  bleed,  and  make  them 
as  dark  as  their  own  forest  caverns  ?  Was  not 
this  our  home  ?  Did  not  the  Great  Spirit  give  us 
these  rivers — those  hills — and  forests,  from  the 
rising  to  the  setting  sun?  Why  drive  us  among 
the  panthers  and  bears  ?  We  only  fight  for  our 
rights,  and  the  Great  Spirit  tells  us  that  they  are 
usurped  by  the  white  man !"  "  This  is  no  time  to 
parley,  chieftain,"  observed  the  English  soldier; 
"  our  business  is  to  avenge  our  wrongs,  and  your 
only  hope  is  to  surrender,  or  these  shores  must 
drink  your  blood  1"  "  I  came  not,  brother,  to 
sue  your  favour,"  replied  the  Indian ;  "  if  we  have 
been  tigers,  instead  of  lambs,  who  is  to  blame 
but  the  white  man?  Were  not  our  homes  first  beg- 


160 

gared  by  the  English  ?"   "  One  fire  of  my  gun," 
interrupted  the  other,  "  decides  the  fate  of  your 
people  in  the  cavern ;  and,  unless  you  surrender 
this  instant,  all  Nahant  shall  be  in  a  blaze!"  "Bro- 
ther," resumed  the  chief,  "  I  surrender  on  one  con- 
dition only."     "  Mention  it,"  returned  the  other. 
"  That  we  be  allowed  to  depart  in  our  boats,  on 
condition  of  burying,  for  ever,  the  tomahawk." 
"  No  :"  declared  his  indignant  antagonist,  "  we 
will  not," — "Captain,"  muttered  'Wonderful,'  "Do 
you  remember  the  oath,  you  solemnly  pledged 
me  ?"     "  What  oath,  woman  ?"  demanded  the 
soldier.    "  That  you  would  grant  me  one  request, 
if  the  Indians  were  delivered  into  your  hands  ?" 
— "  And  that  request  is" — "  It  is,"  returned  the 
hag,  "  to  grant  a  free  passage  to  the  enemy  as  he 
desired."     "  If,  brother,  you  refuse,"  added  the 
son  of  the  forest,  "  we  will  rather  swim  in  our 
blood,  than  submit  to  other  terms."     The  pistol 
of  the  officer  was  already  levelled,  and  snapped 
in   the   air — but  the  flash  was  the  only  conse- 
quence.    "  Heaven  forbids  you,"  cried  the  with- 
ered woman,  "  to  make  the  intended  sacrifice; 
and  if  you  still  persist,  I  will  arm  its  indigna- 
tion against  you."     The  clouds,  clearing  away, 
disclosed  several   bows  of  light,  spanning  the 
eastern  and  western  shore :  and  the  shock  of  an 


161 

earthquake,  accompanied  by  a  peal  of  thunder, 
arrested  the  attention  of  the  party.  "  I  consent, 
then,"  replied  the  relenting  son  of  Mars,  reading 
his  duty  in  the  elements ;  k4  but  pledge  me  your 
solemn  oath,  that  your  people  shall  not  engage  in 
the  war !"  "  I  swear  it,"  said  the  chieftain.  Both 
were  satisfied.  They  parted  on  the  hill,  each  to 
announce  to  his  people  the  approaching  prepara- 
tions. After  meeting  on  the  shore,  and  exchanging 
a  last  farewell,  the  former  returned  to  Lynn,  to 
announce  the  termination  of  hostilities,  and  the 
latter  in  their  canoes,  for  the  shores  of  Pocasset. 

It  was  full  morning ;  the  sun  shone  beautifully 
on  the  rocks  of  Nahant,  no  longer  the  theatre  of 
war.  It  has  been  rumoured,  that  the  old  witch 
was  secretly  under  the  protection  of  the  Indians, 
for  the  advice  which  she  bestowed;  and  grati- 
tude, for  their  kindness,  induced  her  to  save  their 
lives.  Her  death  soon  rendered  further  inquiry 
useless ;  and  she  is  said  to  have  been  buried  near 
the  entrance  of  the  natural  cavern.  Many  of  the 
superstitious,  living  near  the  spot,  profess  to  have 
seen  her  apparition  among  the  rocks ;  and  few  of 
the  aged  can  visit "  Swallow's  Cave"  without  re- 
membering the  singular  escape  of  the  Narra- 
ganset  Indians. 

No.  VI.— i 


THE    JLUUJEAU 


SCHOOLEY   MOUNTAIN, 


As  the  ivy  climbs  the  tallest  tree, 

So  round  the  loftiest  soul  his  toils  he  wound, 

And  with  his  spells  subdu'd  the  fierce  and  free. 

W.  SCOTT. 


THE  same  light  which  diffused  literary  and 
religious  knowledge  has  dispelled  the  shades  of 
superstition  from  the  greatest  portion  of  our 
country.  Occupied  exclusively  in  clearing  and 
cultivating  their  lands,  our  ancestors  were  con- 
tented with  the  rude,  oral  traditions,  transmitted 
from  father  to  son ;  and,  unable  to  discriminate 
falsehood  from  error,  they  received  them  as  the 
undoubted  observations  of  experience.  But  when 
scientific  research  began  to  pour  its  blaze  upon 
the  darkened  understanding :  when  commercial 
interests  opened  a  communication  between  places 
hitherto  estranged,  and  the  doctrines  of  religion. 


found  the  mind  prepared  to  comprehend,  and 
abandon  the  absurdities  of  ignorance  ;  then  the 
mind,  not  only  loathed  the  thraldom  which  it  had 
escaped,  but  wondered  at  the  infatuation  which 
had  so  long  enslaved  it.  Experience  is,  doubt- 
less, the  grand  test  of  delusion ;  and  they  who 
have  been  most  thoroughly  drilled  in  her  school, 
and  suffered  most  under  the  rod  of  her  chas- 
tisement, know  best  how  to  appreciate  the  moral 
light  which  they  enjoy. 

On  one  of  those  branches  of  the  Alleghanies, 
which  intersect  the  southern  part  of  Morris 
county,  New-Jersey,  there  is  a  singular  mineral 
spring,  trickling  through  a  small  crevice  in  the 
solid  rock,  and  led  off  by  gutters  into  bathing- 
houses,  and  other  reservoirs,  for  invalids,  who 
frequent  this  spot  at  various  seasons  of  the  year ; 
not  only  on  account  of  the  properties  of  its 
waters,  but  the  salubrity  of  air,  and  romanticity 
of  scenery,  with  which  this  mountain  so  pecu- 
liarly abounds.  The  range,  though  not  very  lofty, 
is  here  and  there  scooped  out  into  wild,  deep 
forest  glens,  divided  into  narrow  and  devious 
passes,  enlivened  by  noisy  cataracts  of  water  that 
foams  down  its  cragged  precipices :  and.  some- 


164 

times  impervious,  by  the  forest  trees  and  shrub- 
bery, which  line  its  sides,  eminences,  and  valleys. 
There  is  a  particular  part  of  this  mountain,  not 
far  from  the  spring,  hollowed  out  into  a  gloomy 
circular  cavity,  about  half  a  mile  in  breadth, — girt 
by  woodlands  of  impenetrable  shade, — appa- 
rently the  abode  of  wild  beasts,  or  banditti,  and 
calculated  to  foster  those  superstitious  impres- 
sions so  naturally  imbibed  in  early  established 
settlements.  Not  many  miles  from  this  place  is 
a  beautiful  little  village,  that  has  grown  into  con- 
spicuity  since  the  continental  war,  consisting  of  a 
sparse,  but  busy  population — the  descendants  of 
many  brave  families,  who  suffered  much  in  the 
achievement  of  our  independence,  and  the  per- 
petuation of  those  blessings  so  proudly  enjoyed 
by  all.  When  the  revolution  poured  its  ravages 
in  this  neighbourhood,  many  of  the  wealthy  in- 
habitants are  said  to  have  buried  large  sums  of 
money  in  the  mountain ;  not  only  to  avoid  the 
danger  of  being  plundered,  but  to  secure  retreats 
for  themselves  and  families,  in  case  of  being  com- 
pelled to  fly  from  their  habitations.  In  conse- 
quence of  a  tradition  of  concealed  treasures  in 
the  ravine,  before  alluded  to,  many  attempted  to 
discover  the  spot,  and  enrich  themselves  with 


165 

wealth  inherited  only  by  the  moles.  But  the 
grand  difficulty  was,  how  to  accomplish  this; 
for  though  months  were  spent  in  examining  the 
ground,  digging  up  and  clearing  the  paths,  and 
testing  by  the  money  rod  the  value  of  every  spot 
— still  their  efforts  were  fruitless.  Some  went  so 
far  as  to  say  that  they  knew  the  place  well,  for  that 
the  money  was  guarded  so  strictly  by  the  spirits 
of  the  owners,  that  it  was  almost  worth  a  man's 
neck  to  venture  upon  the  search :  and  numbers  of 
shrewd,  knowing  ones,  declared  that  they  had 
been  frequently  attacked  by  these  miserly  ghosts ; 
and  that  several  of  their  more  cowardly  friends 
had  been  entirely  carried  off  by  them.  This  report 
continuing  to  gain  ground,  research  was  suspend- 
ed for  several  years  after,  and  they  who  had  been 
the  boldest  in  searching  for  the  treasures,  re- 
solved to  wait  until  they  had  found  some  one 
supernaturally  endowed,  to  discover  the  identical 
place,  and  exorcise  the  obstinate  spectres. 

There  lived,  or  rather  stayed,  in  Connecticut, 
a  miraculous,  gifted  fellow  of  a  pedagogue, 
named  Rogers ;  who,  in  addition  to  his  talent 
for  governing  children,  professed  himself  ca- 
pable of  controlling  the  empire  of  the  devil. 


166 

and  cudgelling  the  most  obstinate  demons 
into  compliance  with  his  authority.  He  could 
scarcely  read  his  own  name ;  but  he  possessed 
such  a  rapid  and  oily  tongue,  that,  it  was  said, 
the  latter  gift  was  given  to  urge  on  the  flight 
of  the  other;,  and  then  it  smoothed  away  all 
opposition,  for  they  who  understood  more  of  the 
noise  than  substance,  would  certainly  suppose 
him  in  league  with  his  Satanic  majesty.  He 
knew  all  the  signs  of  the  zodiac,  the  months  of 
the  year,  and  could  even  calculate  the  number  of 
seconds  in  a  week  ;  but  whether  he  acquired  his 
knowledge  from  Newton's  Principia,  or  a  common 
almanac,  it  would  puzzle  the  wisest  heads  to 
determine.  He  was  decidedly  a  natural  philoso- 
pher ;  for  he  could  make  it  thunder  and  lighten, 
in  the  clearest  weather — could  cause  a  candle  to 
burn  blue — besides,  he  could  count  the  stars;  and, 
from  his  old  acquaintance  with  the  dead,  with 
whom  he  had  been  in  habits  of  bosom  intimacy, 
was  particularly  versant  in  the  art  of  finding  bu- 
ried money.  But  philosophers  are  always  great 
travellers;  so  our  genius  removes  the  stakes  of  his 
tent,  in  search  of  new  information,  to  the  south; 
or,  in  other  words,  he  packed  up  bag  and  baggage, 
and  became  country  schoolmaster,  at  Smith's 


167 

Clove,  in  the  state  of  New- York.  The  fame  ot 
the  marvellous  is  not  only  universal,  but  is  famous 
for  the  speed  with  which  it  travels  ;  and  such  a 
magician  as  this,  could  not  long  escape  the  anx- 
ious individuals  who  were  so  eager  to  become 
rich  on  the  leavings  of  their  deceased  ancestors. 
A  committee  was  appointed  to  visit  this  communer 
with  the  dead ;  and,  after  cautiously  demurring 
whether  he  would  starve  to  death  on  the  bad  pay 
of  a  declining  school,  or  make  his  fortune  by 
combating  with  the  shades  of  the  departed,  he 
graciously  resolved  to  bend  to  the  prayers  of  the 
committee,  and  resume  his  profession  about  three 
miles  from  the  village ;  not  only  to  manage  the 
mental,  but  the  ghostly  interests  of  the  place. 
Having  taken  possession  of  his  new  ferrulean 
sceptre,  our  pedagogue  was  solicited  to  put  his 
talents  at  once  to  the  test,  in  raising  the  dead, 
and  discovering  the  long  buried  treasures.  Ro- 
gers shut  his  eyes,  and  hesitated,  as  if  something 
supernatural  was  crossing  his  mind;  but  after 
opening  them,  with  nothing  but  the  whites  visi- 
ble, he  answered,  in  a  deep  sepulchral  tone,  that 
they  must  exercise  much  patience  and  long-suf- 
fering, before  the  attainment  of  the  reward ;  and 
that,  as  the  object  was  of  the  highest  moment,  it. 


168 

would  require  much  deliberation,  prudence,  and 
delay.  He  demanded  a  full  month's  absence,  to 
arrange  about  removing  his  family,  as  well  as 
other  domestic  concerns,  and  promised  to  return 
immediately  after  the  settlement  of  his  affairs. 
He  accordingly  went ;  and  engaging  an  assistant 
from  Connecticut,  as  a  viceroy  in  the  school,  he 
returned  in  September  to  realize  the  expectations 
of  his  employers. 

An  association  was  immediately  formed  for  the 
purpose  of  devising  and  pursuing  the  best  me- 
thods of  procedure ;  and,  elated  with  the  certain 
prospect  of  wealth,  it  was  soon  increased  to 
about  forty  individuals.  These,  secretly  con- 
vening every  night  at  each  others  houses,  were 
informed  by  Rogers,  that  "  the  undertaking  was 
intricate,  and  extremely  solemn — that  several 
persons  had  been  murdered,  and  buried  with  the 
money,  and  that  the  spirits  must  be  raised  and 
conversed  with,  before  the  money  could  be  ob- 
tained." He  moreover  assured  them,  that  the 
greatest  propriety  of  conduct  was  expected  from 
them,  as  the  apparitions  were  determined  to  im- 
part their  treasures  only  to  the  virtuous,  and  that 
"they  should  meet  together  the  following  evening 


169 

to  ascertain  their  pleasure.  It  was  a  stormy 
night,  when  the  party  arrived  at  the  appointed 
place.  After  anxiously  waiting  a  considerable 
time,  a  deep,  hollow  voice  was  heard  from  the 
floor,  exhorting  them  to  unity,  and  decision  of 
conduct ;  and  informing  them  that  they  must  as- 
semble at  Schooley  Mountain  on  a  particular 
night,  in  a  certain  field,  half  a  mile  from  any 
house ;  that  they  must  keep  within  the  circles 
appointed  by  Rogers ;  and  that,  in  case  of  re- 
fusal, they  should  not  only  lose  their  treasures, 
but  be  spirited  away  from  the  spot.  Words  can- 
not express  the  anxiety  indulged  by  the  associa- 
tion until  the  anticipated  period.  Under  the 
guidance  of  Rogers,  they  proceeded  to  the  magic 
mountain,  anticipating  a  revelation  from  the  dead 
and  the  immediate  disclosure  of  the  object  of  their 
search.  The  road  over  which  they  were  to  pass 
was  circuitous  and  hilly;  and,  having  been  lately 
washed  by  an  autumnal  freshet,  it  was  rutty  and 
tedious ;  and  a  cold  north  wind  sweeping  over  the 
meadows,  served  almost  to  chill  the  ardour  of  the 
enterprise.  It  was  such  a  night  too  as  was  propi- 
tious to  the  object :  the  new  moon  had  set  in  the 
west,  and  the  stars  shone  but  dimly,  through  a 
cloud  of  hazy  mist  that  was  rising  from  the 

No.  VI.— 2 


170 

marshy  ground.  The  members  of  the  fraternity 
had  secretly  left  their  families  at  home;  and, 
under  the  conduct  of  Rogers,  were  breasting 
every  difficulty  to  arrive  at  riches  by  a  new  and 
unheard-of  expedient.  So  strangely  perverse  is 
the  human  mind  bent  upon  its  own  sensual  grati- 
fications, and  undirected  by  any  other  light  but 
that  of  misguided  reason ! 

Like  a  true  and  gallant  leader,  Rogers  ascended 
before  them  the  steep  passes  of  the  mountain, 
gloomy  with  its  forest  trees  and  precipices,  and 
filling  them  with  constant  dread  of  meeting  the 
objects  of  their  apprehension.  The  waving  of 
every  rustling  branch  seemed  to  wear  the  aspect 
of  a  spectre — every  whistle  of  the  wind  conjured 
up  a  thousand  supernatural  voices.  After  much 
fatigue,  they  arrived  at  last  at  the  dreary  spot 
where  they  were  to  contend  in  reality  with  the 
awful  powers  of  darkness.  The  deep,  extended 
dell  was  more  than  a  mile  from  any  house,  and 
the  footstep  of  a^human  creature  rarely  trode  that 
way.  They  dismounted  in  the  road,  and  fastening 
their  horses  to  the  trees,  they  followed  their  ad- 
venturous guide  with  trembling  steps,  revering 
him  at  the  moment  as  something  more  than  mor- 


171 

tal.  They  halted  upon  a  shelving  field  of  rocks, 
overlooking  the  black  ravine,  filled  with  the  mur- 
murings  of  the  restless  branches,  and  the  echoes 
of  distant  water,  gurgling  its  course  along  the 
valleys.  A  magical  circle  had  been  previously 
prepared  by  Rogers,  marked  with  a  variety  of 
cabalistic  figures ;  and  into  this  the  party  were 
directed  to  remain,  on  pain  of  death,  until  the 
mysterious  business  was  concluded.  A  tent,  con- 
structed of  posts,  covered  over  with  a  dark  cloth, 
had  been  erected  for  the  magician ;  and  here,  as 
upon  his  throne  of  empire,  he  was  to  sit  as  the 
controller  of  the  supernatural  proceedings.  A 
peal  of  sharp  thunder  broke  from  the  centre  of 
the  dell  below,  and  fires  of  various  colours  illu- 
minated the  sides  of  the  dim  mountain,  from 
which,  occasionally,  elongated  flames  would 
burst,  and  breaking  high  in  air,  would  sometimes 
fall  and  expire  almost  at  the  feet  of  the  trembling 
members  ;  voices  too,  apparently  from  the  dead, 
were  heard  commanding  them  to  follow  impli- 
citly the  directions  of  Rogers ;  to  preserve  unity 
and  virtuous  deportment ;  and  that  each  man 
must  deposite,  by  way  of  ghostly  tribute,  twelve 
pounds,  lawful  currency,  at  the  foot  of  the  tree, 
under  the  penalty  of  certain  destruction.  The 


m 

affrighted  company  perceived  that  fleshless  beings 
would  not  be  trifled  with;  and  after  remitting  the 
debt  demanded  by  the  spectres,  they  silently  pur- 
sued their  way  homeward,  amazed,  no  less  than 
Rogers,  at  the  wonders  they  had  witnessed. 

Convinced  of  the  supernatural  abilities  of  their 
conductor,  they  continued  to  assemble  every 
night  at  one  of  the  member's  houses,  and  there 
Rdgers  met  them,  not  only  to  receive  the  moneys 
for  the  dead,  but  to  consult  respecting  the  time 
of  inheriting  the  anticipated  treasures.  To 
his  credit,  be  it  recorded,  that,  whenever  any 
was  unable  to  pay  the  stipulated  sum,  he  was 
merciful  enough  to  reduce  it  to  one-half,  or  in 
proportion  to  the  ability  of  the  person.  But 
the  great  difficulty  was  in  the  procural  of  the 
money ;  for  the  apparitions  believing  that  bank 
notes  were  very  precarious  property,  demanded 
silver  and  gold  in  lieu  of  the  loan  paper  circu- 
lating in  New-Jersey;  and  the  consequence  wast 
that  rather  than  not  obtain  it,  the  parties  would 
mortgage  their  farms,  and  sacrifice  their  furniture 
and  stock,  than  disappoint  the  generous  spirits 
who  had  so  much  in  store  for  them.  While 
Rogers  communicated  his  errands  at  these  noc- 


173 

turnal  meetings,  deep  groans  and  knocks,  the 
falling  of  heavy  articles,  and  the  jingling  of 
money,  would  be  heard  within  and  around  the 
house — and  sometimes  a  loud,  hollow  voice  start- 
ling every  one  of  the  company  with  the  injunc- 
tion to  "press  forward!"  At  others  they  were 
told  by  invisible  tongues  "  that  they  were  em- 
powered to  enrich  them ;  and  that  all  they 
demanded  was  money  for  the  relief  of  the  poor." 
Families  were  aroused  from  their  beds  by  the  im- 
portunities of  these  purse-proud  spirits,  who 
would  give  them  no  rest  till  they  gave  their  fee 
for  a  verbal  promissory  note,  for  the  payment  of 
the  money.  It  was  drawn  at  three  months, 
payable  with  interest  on  the  first  of  May. 

Nothing  more  powerfully  stimulates  the  mind, 
than  the  prospect  of  immediate  wealth.  Intoxi- 
cating the  heart  with  ungovernable  passions,  it 
corrupts  its  principles,  deludes  it  with  projects  im- 
possible to  realize,  and  finally  drowns  it  in  irre- 
parable ruin.  Consumed  with  this  desire,  the 
ghostly  fraternity  could  hardly  rest  iji  their  beds, 
or  pursue  their  customary  business.  Their  farms, 
their  families,  their  own  interests  were  forgotten. 
On  the  other  hand,  many  of  them,  weak  in  the 


174 

iaith,  were  disturbed  by  rebellious  doubts  as  to 
the  reality  of  the  proceedings :  others  withheld 
their  rightful  tribute  from  the  dead ;  in  short,  the 
whole  winter  was  spent  in  continual  disputes  with 
each  other  respecting  the  integrity  of  their  leader. 
The  approach  of  May  became  a  new  era  of  ex- 
pectation ;  and,  as  with  children,  it  beguiled  their 
tedious  hours  with  many  an  amusing  dream. 
Who  can  describe  their  delight  when  the  appoint- 
ed moment  arrived?  They  hastened  again,  with 
their  fearless  guide,  to  the  enchanted  mountain, 
where  they  were  certain  of  realizing  so  ample  a 
fortune.  Again  they  were  paraded  within  the 
circle — again  the  thunders  and  supernatural  fires 
played  from  the  awful  dell — again  the  voices  of 
the  dead  spoke;  but  they  appeared  not  as  at 
first,  the  peaceable  tenants  of  Elyzium,  but  they 
raged  in  all  the  violence  of  Tartaric  fierceness, 
upbraiding  the  company  for  want  of  faith  in  their 
conductor,  for  withholding  the  moneys  due  to 
their  kindness,  for  their  continual  altercations 
with  each  other,  and  threatening  them  with  im- 
mediate extermination  unless  submitting  to  the 
authority  of  Rogers.  They  informed  them,  be- 
sides, that  they  had  broken  the  condition  on 
which  their  promise  was  suspended ;  and  that  the 
time  of  reaping  the  reward  depended  entirely 


on  their  future  good  behaviour.  So  violently 
did  they  rage,  that  even  Rogers  himself  became 
dreadfully  alarmed ;  and  excited  by  the  entreaties 
of  the  petrified  members,  he  was  compelled  to 
put  in  requisition  all  his  inherent  energies ;  and, 
after  bribing  the  spectres  with  a  valuable  fee  from 
each  of  the  party,  they  were  driven  at  last  in 
triumph  from  the  field. 

Several  months  had  now  elapsed,  and  still  there 
was  no  prospect  of  the  anticipated  fortunes. 
Though  the  society  had  paid  the  round  sum  of 
five  hundred  pounds,  lawful  currency,  they  had 
only  received  the  note  of  promise  from  the 
mouths  of  apparitions ;  and  they  began  to  con- 
sider them  as  bankrupts,  deserving  of  condign 
punishment.  They  were  almost  disposed  to  seize 
upon  Rogers  as  their  security,  when  mindful  of 
his  promises,  and  the  dangers  from  which  he 
rescued  them,  they  believed  his  integrity,  and  that 
the  apparitions  had  become  insolvent. 

A  singular  circumstance  happening  about  this 
time,  dispelled  the  darkness  that  hung  upon  these 
mysteries.  A  gentleman  in  the  village  was  impor- 
tuned at  his  window,  every  night,  by  a  noisy  ap- 
parition, who  promised  to  make  his  fortune 


provided    he  would    compensate    him    with  a 
liberal  present.    He  informed  him  that  he  was  the 
spirit  of  one  of  those  who  were  murdered  oil 
Schooley  Mountain,  and  that  he  would  disclose 
to  him  the  very  spot  where  the  treasures  were 
deposited.     The    gentleman  paid  the  demand; 
for    who  could  resist  the  importunities  of  the 
dead?     There  had  fallen  a  deep  snow  during  the 
night,  and,  unfortunately  for  the  honour  of  the 
spectre,  the  tracks  of  a  human  foot  were  traced 
to  the  house  of  Rogers,  who,  being  immediately 
committed  to  prison,  confessed  his  fraud  upon 
the  society ;  but  he  was  bailed  out  by  a  friend, 
who  was  compelled,  alas,  to  advance  two  hundred 
pounds  for  the  escape  of  his  thankless  prisoner. 
Some  wrong-headed  fellows  still  say,  that  he  took 
refuge  among  the  spirits  of  Schooley  Mountain ; 
but  others  aver  that  he  resumed  his  old  profes- 
sion somewhere  to  the  west  of  Ohio.     Some 
broken  kegs   of  powder  were   soon  discovered 
among  the  mountain  weeds,  and  the  remains  of 
rockets,  and  white,  muslin  sheets,  and  other  im- 
plements of  ghostly  warfare,  under  some  of  the 
rocks.     The  story  is  told  with  much  humour  by 
the  young  folks  of  Morris  county,  and  nothing  has 
proved  such  a  warning  to  covetous  people  as  the 
fate  of  the  impostor  of  Schooley  Mountain. 


GEN.  WASHINGTON'S  ESCAPE. 


Washington 's  a  watch-word,  such  as  ne'er 
Shall  sink  tvhere  there 's  an  echo  left  to  air. 

•*.,       BYRON. 


THE  name  of  Washington  is  dear  to  every 
American.  Distinguished,  not  only  for  bravery 
and  intelligence,  but  for  the  purest  virtues  which 
can  adorn  the  human  heart,  he  has  been  vene- 
rated in  the  memory  of  distant  nations,  and  im- 
mortalized by  the  blessings  which  he  shed  upon  his 
country.  He  resembles  the  orb  of  day,  impart- 
ing his  twilight  long  after  he  is  set;  and  in- 
visibly dispensing  his  light  and  cheering  warmth 
to  the  world.  Cautious,  and  prudent,  he  was 
never  surprised  by  the  most  disheartening  failures ; 
nor  alarmed  into  compliance  by  the  most  un- 
daunted threats.  His  eye  could  penetrate  the 
darkest  designs ;  ^md  his  powers  of  invention 
enabled  him  to  escape  the  most  formidable  strata- 
gems. The  very  means,  employed  by  the  enemy 

No.  VI.— 3 


J78 

to  incommode  him,  were  frequently,  in  his  own 
hands,  the  instruments  of  their  ruin.  As  an  illus- 
tration of  his  eagle-eyed  caution,  I  will  briefly 
narrate  his  escape  from  a  singular  plot,  which  I 
learned  from  the  lips  of  a  venerable  man  several 
years  deceased. 

When  the  American  army  was  stationed  at 
West  Point,  during  the  revolutionary  war,  the 
British  head-quarters  were  not  many  miles  dis- 
tant, on  the  Hudson ;  and  each  were  waiting,  like 
the  figures  on  a  chess  board,  for  some  favourable 
movement,  to  disconcert  and  thwart  the  opera- 
tions of  the  other.  Scouting  parties  would  en- 
gage in  frequent  skirmishes ;  and  wagons  of  pro- 
visions, ammunition,  and  clothing,  would  fall  into 
the  power  of  those  superior  in  number  and  ad- 
dress. On  one  of  these  occasions,  a  quantity  of 
English  uniform  was  seized  by  an  American  de- 
tachment; and  several  notable  advantages  ob- 
tained by  the  latter,  inspired  the  enemy  with  a 
desire  to  retaliate.  About  this  time,  while  at  West 
Point,  General  Washington  had  an  intimate  ac- 
quaintance, not  far  resident  Jirom  the  army,  in 
whose  family  he  enjoyed  the  kindest  hospitality, 
as  well  as  relief  from  many  of  those  sterner  en- 


179 

gagements  which  harassed  his  weary  mind.  As 
every  circumstance  was  food  to  either  army,  a  visit 
like  this,  not  many  miles  from  their  camp,  could 
not  long  escape  the  cognizance  of  the  English.; 
and  to  possess  a  prisoner  like  General  Washing- 
ton, would  tend,  in  their  opinion,  to  shorten 
the  period  of  the  war.  But  the  undertaking  was 
difficult :  there  were  always  advanced  guards  to 
cover  the  American  Commander,  and  there  was 
no  mode  of  discovering  his  visits,  except  by  win- 
ning over  some  one  of  the  family.  The  friend 
whom  the  General  visited  was  once  thought  to 
have  espoused  the  interests  of  the  British;  but 
he  had  taken  a  decided  stand  in  favour  of 
America ;  and  though  a  brave  man,  he  professed 
the  strictest  neutrality,  alleging  as  his  reason — his 
years,  and  dependent  family. 

During  the  intimacy  of  the  General,  it  was  ru- 
moured in  the  American  army,  that  his  friend  had 
been  often  seen  returning  from,  the  British  camp. 
Washington  seemed  to  disregard  the  account ; 
for  he  never  ceased  to  visit  the  family,  and,  ap- 
parently, mingled  as  cordially  with  the  host,  as  if 
no  suspicion  had  crossed  his  mind.  At  length, 
one  day,  as  the  General  was  taking  his  leave, 


180 

his  friend  earnestly  requested  him  to  dine  with 
him  the  following  afternoon,  and  emphatically 
named  the  hour  of 'two,  as  the  moment  of  ex- 
pecting him.   He  reminded  him  of  the  uncommon 
delight  which  his  intimacy  conferred — begged 
him  to  lay  aside  every  formality,  and  regard  his 
house  as  his  home ;  and  hinted,  that  he  feared  the 
General  did  not  consider  it  in  that  light ;  as  the 
guard  that  always  accompanied  him  seemed  to 
indicate,  he  was  not  visiting  a  friend.      "  By  no 
means,  dear  sir!"  exclaimed  the  worthy  patriot; 
"  there  is  no  man  I  esteem  more  than  yourself; 
and,  as  a  proof  of  the  confidence  which  I  repose 
in  you,  I  will  visit  you  alone  to-morrow,  and  I 
pledge  my  sacred  word  of  honour,  that  not  a 
soldier  shall  accompany  me."     "Pardon    me, 
General,"  cried  the  host ;  "  but  why  so  serious  on 
BO  trifling  a  subject?    I  merely  jested."     "I  am 
aware  of  it,"  said  the  hero,  smiling ;  "  but  what 
of  that  ?  I  have  long  considered  the  planting  of 
these  outposts  unnecessary,  inasmuch  as   they 
may  excite  the  suspicion  of  the  enemy ;  and  al- 
though it  be  a  trifle,  that  trifle  shall  not  sport  with 
the  friendship  you  indulge  for  me."    "  But  then— • 
the  hour,  General  ?" — "  Oh,  yes,  two  o'clock  you 
said." — "  Precisely !"  returned  the  other. 


181 

At  one  o'clock  on  the  following  day,  the  Gene- 
ral mounted  his  favourite  horse,  and  proceeded 
alone,  upon  a  bye-road  which  conducted  him  to 
the  hospitable  mansion.  It  was  about  half  an 
hour  before  the  time,  and  the  bustling  host  re- 
ceived him  with  open  arms,  in  addition  to  the 
greetings  of  the  delighted  family.  "  How  punc- 
tual, kind  sir !"  exclaimed  the  warm-hearted 
friend.  "  Punctuality,"  replied  Washington,  "  is 
an  angel  virtue,  embracing  minor  as  well  as  im- 
portant concerns.  He  that  is  unpunctual  with  a 
friend,  may  doubt  his  integrity."  The  host  start- 
ed ;  but  recovering  himself,  he  added, — "  then 
yours  is  a  proof  that  we  enjoy  your  fullest  con- 
fidence." Washington  proposed  a  promenade 
upon  the  piazza,  previous  to  the  dinner.  It  over- 
looked a  rough  country  several  miles  in  extent ; 
fields  of  grain,  here  and  there  sweeping  beneath 
the  sides  of  bleak  hills  producing  nothing  but 
rocks  and  grass — shallow  runnels  of  water  flow- 
ing along  the  hollows  of  the  uneven  waste — then 
hidden  by  woodlands  intercepting  a  prospect  of 
the  country  beyond — spotted  now  and  then  with 
silver  glimpses  of  the  Hudson,  stealing  through 
the  sloping  grounds  below,  and  chequered  on  both 
sides  by  the  dim,  purple  Highlands,  frowning 


182 

sometimes  into  hoary  battlements,  and  tapering 
again  into  gentle  valleys,  hardly  illuminated  by 
the  sun.  "  This  is  fine,  bold  scenery !"  exclaimed 
the  General,  apparently  absorbed  in  the  beauty 
of  the  prospect.  "  Yes,  sir,"  replied  his  friend, 
looking  wistfully  around,  as  if  expecting  some 
one's  approach ;  but  catching  the  piercing  glance 
of  Washington,  his  eyes  were  fastened  con- 
fusedly on  the  floor.  "  I  must  really  rally  you. 
my  friend,"  observed  the  General ;  "  do  you  per- 
ceive yonder  point,  that  boldly  rises  from  the 
water,  and  suddenly  is  lost  behind  that  hill  which 
obstinately  checks  the  view  ?"  "  I  do,"  replied  the 
absent  listener,  engaged  apparently  in  some- 
thing else  than  the  subject  of  inquiry.  "  There," 
continued  the  hero,  "  my  enemy  lies  encamped ; 
and  were  it  not  for  a  slight  mist,  I  could  almost 
fancy  that  I  perceive  his  cavalry  moving;  but 
hark,  that  cannon  !  Do  you  not  think  it  proceeds 
from  the  head-quarters  of  the  enemy  ?" 

While  pointing  out  to  his  friend  the  profile  of 
the  country,  the  face  of  the  latter  was  often 
turned  the  opposite  way,  seemingly  engrossed  in 
another  object  immediately  behind  the  house. 
He  was  not  mistaken:  it  was  a  troop,  seemingly. 


of  British  horse,  that  were  descending  a  distant 
hill,  winding  through  a  labyrinth  of  numerous 
projections  and  trees,  until  they  were  "seen  gal- 
lopping  through  the  valley  below — and  then  again 
they  were  hidden  by  a  field  of  forest  that  swelled 
along  the  bosom  of  the  landscape.  "  Would 
it  not  be  strange,'5  observed  the  General,  appa- 
rently unconscious  of  the  movements  behind  him, 
"  that  after  all  my  toils,  America  should  forfeit 
her  liberty?"  "Heaven  forbid  !"  said  his  friend, 
becoming  less  reserved,  and  entering  more 
warmly  into  the  feelings  of  the  other.  "But," 
resumed  Washington,  "  I  have  heard  of  treachery 
in  the  heart  of  one's  own  camp ;  and,  doubtless, 
you  know  that  it  is  possible  '  to  be  wounded  even 
in  the  house  of  one's  friend.' 1*  "  Sir ;"  demanded 
the  downcast  host,  unable  to  meet  the  searching 
glance  of  his  companion,  "who  can  possibly  intend 
_sp,  daring  a  crime?"  "  I  only  meant,"  replied  the 
other,  "  that  treachery  was  the  most  hideous  of 
crimes  ;  for,  Judas  like,  it  will  even  sell  its  Lord 
for  money !"  "  Very  true,  dear  sir,"  responded 
the  anxious  host,  as  he  gazed  upon  a  troop  of 
British  horse,  winding  round  the  hill,  and  riding 
with  post  haste  towards  the  hospitable  mansion. 
*4  Is  it  two  o'clock  yet  ?"  demanded  Washington ; 


184 

-  for  I  have  an  engagement  this  afternoon  at  the 
army,  and  I  regret  that  my  visit  must,  therefore, 
be  shorter  than  intended."  "  It  lacks  a  full  quar- 
ter yet !"  said  his  friend,  seeming  doubtful  of  his 
watch,  from  the  arrival  of  the  horsemen.  "  But, 
bless  me,  sir !  what  cavalry  are  these  that  are  so 
rapidly  approaching  the  house  ?"  "  Oh,  they 
may  possibly  be  a  party  of  British  light  horse,"  re- 
turned his  companion,  coolly,  "  which  mean  no 
harm ;  and,  if  I  mistake  not,  they  have  been  sent 
for  the  purpose  of  protecting  me."  As  he  said 
this,  the  Captain  of  the  troop  was  seen  dismount- 
ing from  his  horse;  and  his  example  was  fol- 
lowed by  the  rest  of  the  party.  "  General  ?" 
returned  the  other,  walking  to  him  very  familiarly, 
and  tapping  him  on  the  shoulder,  "  General,  you 
are  my  prisoner !"  « I  believe  not,"  said  Wash- 
ington, looking  calmly  at  the  men  who  were  ap- 
proaching the  steps ;  "  but,  friend,"  exclaimed 
he,  slapping  him  in  return  on  the  arm,  "  I  know 
that  you  are  mine !  Here,  officer,  carry  this 
treacherous  hypocrite  to  the  camp,  and  I  will 
make  him  an  example  to  the  enemies  of  America." 

The  British  general  had  secretly  offered  an 
immense  sum  to  this  man,  to  make  an  appoint- 


ment  with  the  hero,  at  two  o'clock,  at  which 
time  he  was  to  send  a  troop  of  horse,  to  secure 
him  in  their  possession.  Suspecting  his  intentions, 
Washington  had  directed  his  own  troop  to  habit 
themselves  as  English  cavalry,  and  arrive  half  an 
hour  precisely  before  the  time  he  was  expected. 

They  pursued  their  way  to  the  camp  triumph- 
ing at  the  sagacity  of  their  Commander,  who 
had  so  astonishingly  defeated  the  machina- 
tions of  the  British  General.  But  the  humanity 
of  Washington  prevailed  over  his  sense  of  jus- 
tice. Overcome  by  the  tears  and  prayers  of  the 
family,  he  pardoned  his  treacherous  friend,  on 
condition  of  his  leaving  the  country  for  ever; 
which  he  accordingly  did ;  and  his  name  was 
ever  after  sunk  in  oblivion. 


No.  VI.—4 


AMERICAN    LITERATURE- 


When  first  the  eaglet,  at  his  sire's  behest, 
On  untry'd  pinions,  leaves  his  parent  nest, — 
Flutt'ring  he  files  ;  but  soon  the  bird  of  Jove, 
On  wings  of  thunder,  seeks  the  courts  above. 
Just  so  Columbia  !  when  she  dared  to  fling 
Her  infant  fingers,  o'er  the  magic  string ! 
With  bolder  hand  she  sweeps  the  muse's  lyre, 
While  thronging  thousands  listen  and  admire.       A. 


DESCENDED  from  ancestors,  who  brought  from 
the  old  world  a  portion  of  its  literary  treasures, 
Americans  have  resembled,  more  than  a  century 
past,  persons  who  had  been  removed  in  child- 
hood from  the  city  to  a  desert,  and  forgetful  of 
the  illustrious  home  and  parentage  from  which 
they  sprung.  Regarding  themselves  as  a  new 
race  of  beings,  they  have  slumbered  in  the  dream 
of  neglectful  self-distrust ;  and  it  is  therefore  that 
they  have  been  so  long  awakening  to  a  sense  of 
intellectual  duty.  They  begin  to  feel  that  they 
possess  the  same  physical  and  mental  energies 
with  the  most  renowned  Europeans,  and  are 
only  waiting  for  similar  incentives  to  provoke  the 
exertion  of  their  powers.  The  physical  features 


187 

of  our  country  are  calculated  to  lire  the  imagine 
tion  of  the  bard.  The  cloudy  grandeur,  and 
trackless  extent  of  our  mountains — the  solemn 
whisper  of  our  deep  and  rapid  rivers — the  awful 
stillness  and  sublimity  of  our  vast  ocean-lakes 
— our  endless  labyrinth  of  forests — the  magnifi- 
cent variety  of  our  landscapes, — and  the  simple, 
but  interesting  aspect  of  our  cities  and  villages, 
breathe  the  very  air  of  poetry,  which  the  con- 
templative enthusiast  must  inhale.  The  his- 
torical associations  of  the  primitive  settlers  of 
our  country — of  the  aboriginal  Indians,  who  were 
expelled  from  their  native  soil — of  the  revolu- 
tionary war,  numerous  circumstances  of  which 
live  only  in  recollection,  constitute  treasures  for 
our  historians  and  philosophers,  to  weave  the 
garland  of  immortality  around  their  native  land. 
Though  proud  of  the  distinguished  names  which 
have  adorned  American  literature,  we  regret 
that  any  obstacles  should  retard  the  promotion 
of  its  fame. 

One  cause,  for  the  slow  advancement  of  our 
literature,  is  the  want  of  a  more  general  compe- 
tition. In  Europe,  generally,  the  greatest  portion 
of  its  people  are  readers.  You  can  scarcely 
enter  a  cottage  in  Scotland,  whose  inmates  are 


unable  to  converse  on  scientific  subjects: 
throughout  England  and  Germany,  persons  of 
the  lowest  ranks  peruse  the  literature  of  the 
day,  and  become  zealous  competitors  for  some 
particular  system.  But  here  it  is  otherwise :  the 
ta>ste  for  mental  research  is  too  often  superseded 
by  the  love  of  mechanical  enterprise,  the  unwea- 
ried pursuit  of  business,  which  deadens  every 
other  care,  and  the  enjoyment  of  public  amuse- 
ment, which  is  frequently  followed  by  conse- 
quences repugnant  to  mental  improvement.  It 
is  our  habits,  then,  more  than  our  want  of  ability, 
which  retard  our  intellectual  advancement. 
The  purest  gold,  if  unsubmitted  to  the  skill 
of  the  polisher,  will  present  a  dulness  and  rust 
which  it  will  be  difficult  to  wear  away ;  and  the 
brightest  intellect  that  ever  adorned  the  world,  will 
tarnish,  unless  submitting  to  salutary  discipline. 
Were  literary  topics  more  extensively  interestingy 
the  field  of  mental  exertion  would  necessarily 
widen ;  excitement  would  be  given  to  the  most 
distinguished  to  advance  far  beyond  the  sober 
limits  they  have  reached;  and  we  should  be 
taught,  as  in  Europe,  that  it  is  by  the  united  com- 
petition of  many,  that  the  march  of  literature  is 
extended.  But  what  is  there  to  dispirit  so 
noble  an  emulation  ?  Thousnnds  enjoy  atom- 


J89 

dance  of  leisure,  undisturbed  by  national  or  do- 
mestic cares,  who  might  ensure  to  themselves 
sources  of  profitable  pleasure,  and  augment  the 
literary  taste  that  begins  to  dawn  upon  their  coun- 
try. Even  the  man  of  business,  the  mechanic, 
the  labourer,  is  culpable :  if  idling  away  spare 
moments  that  might  be  usefully  employed,  they 
cruelly  contribute  their  mite  towards  the  de- 
pression of  American  literature. 

Another  cause  is,  a  diffidence  of  our  own 
abilities.  Forgetful  that  we  sprung  from  a  na- 
tion pre-eminent  in  literary  glory,  we  have  been 
led  to  suppose  that  our  mental  powers  are  in- 
ferior to  those  of  Europe,  and  we  fear  to  teach  the 
the  world  the  vileness  of  the  calumny.  In  all  other 
respects  we  contend  for  an  equality.  The  mer- 
chant believes  that  he  can  plan  as  sagacious  a. 
speculation — the  mechanic  proudly  vies  with  the 
European  artizan — the  patriot  feels  his  own  on  a 
level  with  the  greatest  nation  of  the  earth,  in 
domestic,  civil,  and  religious  privileges.  But  why 
should  mental  competition  alone  be  disregarded  ? 
Why  should  we  not  soar  to  the  same  height  with 
other  nations,  and  as  victoriously  contend  for  the 
same  intellectual  honours  ?  When  conscious  of 
talents,  and  a  capacity  of  enlightening  others,  is  it 


190 

not  the  duty  of  all  to  diffuse  the  light  of  moral  and 
scientific  knowledge,  and  assist  the  efforts  of 
their  country  in  the  improvement  of  its.members  ? 
But  when  the  talented  shrink  from  the  cultivation 
of  their  faculties ;  when  minds  of  acknowledged 
wisdom  fear  to  give  their  thoughts  to  the  world, 
from  the  apprehension  of  error,  or  the  sarcasms 
of  ridicule,  however  they  may  be  applauded  on 
the  score  of  their  modesty,  they  are  far  from  pro- 
moting the  interests  of  national  literature.  But 
would  Europe  have  acquired  its  literary  celebrity, 
if  its  sages  had  been  thus  afraid  or  distrustful  of 
their  powers  ?  And  how  is  America  to  derive 
the  same  benefits,  but  by  the  united  zeal  of 
its  talented  citizens  ?  Is  it  not  in  the  cultivation 
of  the  humblest  abilities,  and  the  fearless  exer- 
cise of  the  noblest  with  which  we  have  been  en- 
dowed ?  Is  it  not  in  surmounting  that  groundless 
diffidence,  which  prevents  so  many  from  be- 
coming shining  lights  to  their  country,  and  con- 
fines her  ambition  among  so  few  competitors  ? 

The  last  cause  to  be  noticed,  is  the  discourage- 
ments from  ourselves.  Cradled  almost  in  the  be- 
lief, that  nothing  is  literary  but  the  productions  of 
foreign  lands,  we  have  scarcely  presumed,  till 
lately,  that  an  American  publication  could  thrive. 


J91 

The  dream  is  nearly  broken  by  the  glorious  success 
of  many  of  our  native  worthies,  who  have  nobly 
dared  to  refute  a  sentiment  so  absurd.  There  is 
talent  enough  in  America  to  raise  her  to  the 
highest  literary  glory ;  but  it  only  wants  excite- 
ment ;  like  the  powder,  it  only  demands  the  aid  of 
the  spark ;  like  the  diamond,  only  vigorous  ex- 
ertion, to  reveal  its  native  lustre.  But  as  the 
greatest "  foes  are  those  of  one's  own  household," 
so  the  darkest  obstacle  to  our  literature  is  the 
indifference  of  Americans.  Is  it  not  a  fact,  that 
our  own  productions,  generally,  are  received  with 
a  cautious  sneer  ?  Does  not  political  interest  fre- 
quently resist  the  claims  of  genius,  and  persecu- 
tion wield  her  rod  over  the  head  of  the  friendless 
writer?  Do  not  the  censors  of  the  press  sometimes 
wound  by  contemptuous  silence,  and  punish,  at 
others,  with  merciless  severity  ?  Although  per- 
mittted  to  discountenace  stupidity,  yet  do  they 
not  often  blast  numerous  buds  of  genius,  arid  scat- 
ter to  the  four  winds  the  seeds  of  knowledge  and 
virtue  ?  Americans  should  despise  so  unworthy 
a  spirit.  If  ever  respected  abroad,  they  must  first 
respect  themselves.  If  refusing  to  nurture  the 
germ  of  native  talent,  they  cannot  expect  to  ga- 
ther its  fruits  ;  but  it  must  be  either  swept  away, 
to  take  root  in  foreign  soils,  or  wither  from  ne- 


19-2 


gleet  by  those  who  should  have  raised  it  to 
maturity. 

Let  then  Americans  labour  to  advance  their 
literary  glory !  Let  the  nation  take  the  lead  f 
Let  the  infant  colleges  and  schools  throughout 
the  land  be  liberally  endowed,  and  let  observato- 
ries and  philosophical  cabinets  be  established  in 
every  state  !  Let  public  libraries,  literary  associ- 
ations, and  the  fine  arts,  be  generously  sanctioned 
by  the  donations,  the  presence,  and  the  co-opera- 
tion of  our  citizens !  Let  learned  lecturers  be  ap- 
pointed, at  the  national  expense,  to  unfold  the 
principles  of  physical  and  moral  science,  and  dif- 
fuse a  taste  for  belle  lettre  and  eloquence  !  Let 
encouragement  be  always  given  to  the  young,  ad- 
venturous writer,  and  premiums  be  unceasingly 
• 

offered  to  successful  literary  candidates !  Let 
not  the  talented  of  our  country  withhold  their 
pens  in  the  vindication  of  truth  and  virtue !  Let 
the  guardians  of  the  press  unite  in  defending 
American  talent,  and  arousing  its  ambition  instead 
of  mortifying  its  pride !  Thus  our  country  shall  be- 
come the  first  in  wisdom,  as  the  first  in  liberty — 
the  land  of  sages  as  the  land  of  heroes — not 
only  the  home  of  the  friendless  pilgrim,  but  the 
literary  home  of  the  nations  of  the  world. 


THE    REWARD   OF  AVARICE. 


Gold  glitters  most,  where  virtue  shines  no  more  : 
As  stars  from  absent  suns  have  leave  to  shine. 

YOUNG. 


THERE  resided,  not  many  years  ago,  in  a  beau- 
tiful village  on  the  Delaware,  an  elderly  man  who 
possessed  a  wife  tolerably  handsome ;  and  who, 
although  regarded  rich  in  the  estimation  of  his 
neighbours,  was  distinguished  by  a  parsimony 
almost  denying  him  the  comforts  which  ordinarily 
fall  to  the  lot  of  humanity.  Though  avaricious 
in  the  extreme,  he  was  by  no  means  unwilling  to 
contribute  to  the  happiness  of  his  consort,  who, 
on  the  other  hand,  was  as  desirous  of  making 
wings  for  his  property  as  he  was  disposed  to  clip 
them  of  their  liberty.  Being  many  years  younger 
than  himself,  she  was  ungrateful  enough  to  re- 
pent of  the  partner  she  had  chosen — and  more 
particularly  on  account  of  that  narrow  penurious 
disposition  which  made  an  idol  of  other  treas- 

No.  VII.— i 


ures  than  those  which  he  so  solemnly  vowed,  at 
the  altar,  to  cherish.  Her  complaints  could  not 
be  otherwise  than  sincere.  Having  married  her 
husband  solely  for  his  property,  she  began  to  ex- 
perience, that  hoarded  wealth  was  fully  equal  to 
the  infirmities  of  age,  and  that  of  all  disappoint- 
ments to  be  incurred,  none  are  comparable  to 
those  of  matrimonial  life.  There  was  no  other 
remedy  but  patience,  and  submission  to  the 
doom  which  awaited  her ;  so,  pretendingly  obe- 
dient to  the  wishes  of  her  lord,  she  studied  only 
to  discover  his  long-hidden  possessions,  and 
apply  them  to  every  purpose  which  the  cravings 
of  her  cupidity  suggested.  If,  on  the  other 
hand,  her  spouse  was  unreasonably  wedded  to 
his  perishable  mammon,  it  is  certain  that  his 
lady  was  as  passionately  inclined  to  the  other  ex- 
treme; the  one  worshipping  his  idol  with  the 
most  exclusive  devotion;  the  other  refusing  to 
give  it  even  common  respect,  but  desirous  of 
rendering  it  the  means  of  sacrificing  to  other 
deities,  which  her  heart  more  passionately  adored. 
Avarice  and  prodigality  are  equally  despicable 
and  ruinous ;  the  former  entombing  the  heart  in 
the  prison  of  its  own  possessions — the  latter 
wafting  it  on  the  wings  of  every  unhallowed  pas- 


sion,  which,  sooner  or  later,  must  fall  a  wretched 
sacrifice  to  the  world.  If  avarice  be  the  rust  of 
the  mind — prodigality  is  the  poison  that  cankers 
and  blasts  its  hopes. 

The  venerable  spouse,  whom  we  shall  distin- 
guish by  the  name  of  Michael,  was  one  of  the 
stillest  men  in  the  world.  He  would  occasionally 
converse  with  a  neighbour  on  the  rise  and  fall  of 
the  market,  or  gently  chide  his  wife  for  running 
into  those  extravagances  so  natural  and  ruinous 
to  her  sex ;  but  he  was  by  no  means  an  unkind 
husband,  for  he  would  always  compensate  his 
reproofs  by  all  those  kind  attentions  which  are 
pleasing  to  any  but  a  woman  who  regards  with 
indifference  the  assiduities  of  age.  Although 
married  several  years,  she  had  never  been  able 
to  identify  his  property.  It  could  not  consist  in 
either  mortgages,  deeds,  or  bank  stock,  as  she 
would  certainly  have  found  them  in  an  old  trunk, 
where  he  only  deposited  his  papers ;  but  in  spite 
of  ah1  her  rummaging,  she  only  found  torn  bills, 
fragments  of  old  letters,  and  writing  books  which 
he  had  preserved  from  a  boy,  to  convince  pos- 
terity, at  least,  that  if  he  wielded  nothing  else, 
he  was  able  to  wield  a  pen.  Sometimes  she 


4 

thought  that  he  must  be  a  poor  man,  for  he  did 
no  kind  of  business,  was  in  the  habit  of  receiving 
no  money,  and,  as  far  as  she  knew,  was  in  no 
likelihood  of  ever  becoming  richer.  But  then 
she  had  detected  him  counting  whole  piles  of 
guineas  in  his  room,  of  a  Sunday,  and  had  as  fre- 
quently met  him  with  bags  in  his  hand,  which 
her  fancy  saw  filled  with  brimming  heaps  of 
coin.  But  what  could  he  have  done  with  them  ? 
Ah,  there  was  the  mystery !  And  how  should 
she  discover  so  desirable  a  prize  ?  On  the  sub- 
ject of  his  treasures  the  old  man  was  always 
silent ;  and  whenever  allusion  was  made  to  them, 
always  shrugged  his  shoulders,  looked  anxiously 
down  the  garden,  and  folding  his  hands,  drew  a 
deep  sigh,  as  if  in  resignation  to  his  narrow  cir- 
cumstances. At  the  approach  of  dusk,  he  was 
always  in  the  habit  of  resorting  to  his  garden ; 
and  his  wife  generally  improved  the  most  of  this 
time  in  examining  every  part  of  the  house,  to  find 
something,  if  possible,  which  his  cupidity  might 
have  concealed.  But  all  her  efforts  were  fruit- 
less; for  she  only  found  a  rusty  silver  dollar 
which  had  rolled  behind  the  surbase,  and  which 
would  doubtless,  without  a  finder,  have  remained 
there  as  long  as  the  house  itself. 


One  evening,  while  Michael  was  absent  as 
usual  hi  the  garden,  a  spirit  of  curiosity  excited 
her  to  follow  him,  and  ascertain  the  object  of 
his  nightly  visitations.  He  had  been  gone  longer 
than  customary,  and  she  was  resolved  to  know 
the  reason ;  for  who  knows,  thought  she,  but  I 
may  stumble  on  the  treasures  ?  So,  without  de- 
lay, she  slipped  into  the  garden,  and  after  busily 
searching,  could  perceive  no  traces  of  her  hus- 
band ;  when,  hearing  on  a  sudden,  the  noise  of  a 
shovel,  she  concluded  that  some  one  must  be 
near,  and  accordingly  pursued  her  way  to  a  dark 
retired  corner  from  which  the  sound  appeared  to 
proceed.  A  thick  bushy  apple  tree  grew  at  the 
side-walk,  and  enabled  her  to  secrete  herself  to 
observe  whatever  was  going  on.  The  figure  of 
the  old  man  was  dimly  visible  on  the  other  side 
turning  up  the  ground,  and  then  removing  the 
lid  of  a  box  into  which  he  was  seen  depositing 
something  glittering  like  money,  whose  hollow 
rattling  as  it  fell  in  made  it  impossible  to  mistake 
its  nature.  Again  he  fastened  the  chest — 
again  the  ground  was  replaced ;  and  after  look- 
ing inquisitively  round  in  suspicion  of  discovery, 
he  cautiously  bent  his  way  to  the  house,  satisfied 
of  the  safety  of  his  wealth.  But  Michael  little 


6 

dreamed  that  there  was  a  witness  so  near,  to  de- 
tect the  altar  of  his  idol,  and  more  particularly 
the  person  who  was  so  much  interested  in  the 
discovery.  Thus  it  frequently  happens,  that  our 
favourite  plans  are  most  cruelly  marred  by  those 
most  nearly  connected  to  us ;  and  that,  where  we 
least  apprehend  danger,  we  generally  experience 
the  saddest  reverses  of  fortune. 

Here  was  a  mighty  discovery  indeed !  Here 
was  the  fulfilment  of  all  her  fondest  anticipations ! 
Michael  then  was  rich ;  but  how  would  she  have 
preferred  to  see  him  a  beggar,  than  accursed 
with  so  grovelling  a  disposition,  which  could 
thus  basely  conceal  from  her  the  possession  of 
such  a  fortune.  It  was  not  only  a  mark  of  con- 
tempt towards  herself,  but  it  was  too  dastardly  a 
spirit  for  a  woman  of  her  temper  to  brook.  It 
was  high  time,  she  concluded,  to  break  asunder 
the  chains  by  which  she  had  been  enslaved. 
Desperate  as  the  measure  was,  she  was  deter- 
mined to  dig  up  the  discovered  booty,  and  escape 
that  very  night  from  the  habitation  of  her  lord. 
But  where  could  she,  a  solitary  woman,  take 
refuge  ?  She  had  a  relative  in  a  distant  part  of 
Connecticut  with  whom  she  might  find  a  tempo- 


rary  retreat,  or  she  might  take  private  lodgings 
in  some  neighbouring  city,  and  there  patiently 
wait  the  issue  of  the  event.  Accordingly,  that 
very  night,  assisted  by  a  servant,  she  removed 
the  good  man's  strong  hold  of  consolation,  and 
set  off  in  a  carriage,  which  she  had  hired,  for 
New- York.  Thus  guilt  always  commences  with 
a  discontented  mind,  which,  growing  presump- 
tuous under  a  privation  of  imaginary  blessings, 
reasons  itself  into  a  right  of  casting  off  all  re- 
straint, and  employing  any  means  in  the  pro- 
motion of  its  desires. 

They  had  not  proceeded  far,  before  conscience 
began  to  accuse  her  of  the  •  impropriety  of  her 
conduct— but  was  she  not  flying  from  a  man 
whom  she  inwardly  detested  ? — a  man  who  was 
refusing  her  the  confidence  of  a  husband,  and 
denying  her  those  luxuries  which  she  imagined 
were  justly  her  due  ?  The  coachman  was  direct- 
ed to  proceed  with  all  possible  despatch ;  as  if 
that  could  hurry  her  from  the  reproaches  of 
self-accusation,  and  the  danger  of  escaping  the 
future  retribution  of  justice.  The  quick-trotting 
of  horses,  and  the  rattling  of  a  carriage  behind 
them,  made  them  almost  fear  that  the  throng  of 


8 

pursuit  was  after  them,  and  they  several  times 
resolved  to  return  and  replace  their  booty. 
But  they,  who  are  bold  enough  to  silence  the  re- 
monstrances of  virtue,  are  always  apt  to  resist 
them  to  the  last ;  and  how  few  are  the  attempts 
to  follow  her  amiable  convictions  and  determine 
to  be  virtuous  in  spite  of  all  their  temptations  to 
dishonour ! 

Having  arrived  at  New-York  the  following 
day,  she  took  private  lodgings  at  one  of  the 
fashionable  hotels,  giving  out  that  she  was  a 
widow,  who  had  just  buried  her  husband,  and 
had  come  to  the  city  for  the  purpose  of  settling 
his  concerns.  But -then  there  was  that  unlucky, 
heavy  box,  which  she  had  forgotten  to  have  se- 
cured ;  and,  from  its  weight  and  rattling,  con- 
vinced the  porters  who  conveyed  it  to  her  lodg- 
ings, that  there  were  treasures  concealed  of 
more  than  ordinary  importance.  Suspicion,  for 
it  is  always  busy,  began  to  rest  upon  her  as  some 
heroine  in  disguise,  who  had  committed  some 
enormous  robbery,  and  was  flying  away  from  the 
pursuit  of  the  officers  of  justice.  But  there  was 
nothing  about  her  to  excite  such  surmises ;  for 
she  possessed  a  winning  and  genteel  address. 


9 

and  exciting  those  irresistible  impressions  which 
the  contemplation  of  a  friendless  woman  always 
inspires.  But  it  is  difficult  to  stop  the  tongues 
of  the  talkative  and  envious ;  and  with  all  her 
claims  to  general  sympathy,  her  presence  became 
shunned  by  the  inmates  of  the  house.  To  pre- 
vent further  mortification,  she  deemed  it  expe- 
dient to  depart ;  and  her  next  step  was  to  find 
an  asylum,  with  her  relative  in  Connecticut,  from 
all  those  suspicions  resting  upon  her  character. 
But  what  was  she  to  do  with  the  confounded 
box,  which,  like  Abu  Casern's  slippers,  haunted 
her  wherever  she  went?  She  dared  not  de- 
posite  the  coin  in  any  bank,  or  with  any  indi- 
vidual, for  that,  she  knew,  would  be  the  most 
certain  method  of  blazoning  abroad  her  folly. 
Fool  that  she  was !  why  had  she  not  provided 
for  all  this  dilemma,  and  been  more  cautious  in 
taking  so  precipitous  a  step  ?  It  is  plain,  that  she 
had  been  urged  by  the  violence  of  ungovernable 
passions,  which  too  frequently  'egislate  for  the 
understanding.  *•  She  arrived  at  her  relative's  in  a 
few  days;  but  there  it  was  necessary  to  plan 
some  specious  story  to  account  satisfactorily  for 
her  newly  acquired  possessions;  and  she  ac- 
cordingly declared,  that  her  husband  was  dead, 

No.  VTI.— 2 


10 

and  that  she  had  brought  away  the  property 
which  he  had  left  her. 

She  had  not  been  there  longer  than  a  month, 
before  the  newspapers  were  teeming  with  a  most 
singular  robbery,  said  to  have  been  committed 
upon  a  gentleman  in  Pennsylvania;  and  par- 
ticular mention  was  made  of  his  wife  who  had 
left  her  home.  No  name  was  inserted:  but 
the  dread  of  discovery  hanging  heavy  upon  her 
heart,  she  apologized  to  her  friend  for  the  ne- 
cessity of  her  return,  and  departed  that  very 
day  with  her  hapless  box  and  servant.  She  now 
began  to  feel  the  painful  consequences  of  guilt, 
and  the  wretchedness  of  yielding  to  her  ruling 
desires.  Accusing  herself  of  the  maddest  folly, 
she  seemed  like  one  awakening  from  a  sickly 
dream,  and  wondered  how  she  could  have  thus 
forgotten  the  dignity  of  her  sex,  and  plunged 
into  dangers  which,  she  feared,  were  inevita- 
ble. She  remembered  that  Michael,  though  pe- 
nurious, had  always  been  an  attentive  husband ; 
and  that  the  crime  for  which  she  hated  him  was 
the  result  of  his  declining  years.  But  had  she 
no  faults  of  which  to  accuse  herself — no  spirit  of 
extravagance  fully  equal  to  the  avarice  of  her 


11 

consort,  and  just  as  much  entitled  to  the  een* 
sures  she  bestowed  on  him  ?  Such  were  the  re- 
flections which  conscience  inspired  in  the  bosom 
of  our  penitent  dame,  while  bending  her  sorrow- 
ful way  to  her  husband's  house,  from  which  she 
had  been  absent  almost  two  months ; — and  who 
could  tell  her  what  had  transpired  since  last  she 
left  it  ? — It  was  after  dusk  when  she  arrived. 
The  place  looked  more  dreary  and  desolate  than 
formerly;  the  window-shutters  were  closed — no 
living  creature  was  seen  around  the  premises — 
and  a  small  wooden  bar  nailed  upon  the  entrance 
of  the  door  intimated  that  admittance  was  alto- 
gether in  vain.  The  returning  prodigal  resolved, 
at  all  events,  to  restore  the  fatal  box  to  the  place 
whence  it  was  taken,  that  in  case  of  appre- 
hension, by  the  neighbours,  or  her  husband,  she 
might  not  have  in  her  possession  so  awful  a  wit- 
ness against  her.  Having  entered  the  garden, 
through  a  small  unfastened  gate,  they  found  the 
hole  just  as  they  had  left  it ;  and  after  replacing 
the  chest,  the  ground  was  covered  over  the  ob- 
ject of  her  cupidity.  She  returned  to  the  house 
with  a  slow,  dejected  air ;  and  after  requesting 
the  servant  to  remain  within  her  call,  she  ap- 
proached the  back  piazza ;  but  there  was  nothing 
here  more  indicative  of  inhabitants  than  at  the 


front;  and  she  consequently  concluded  that 
either  Michael  had  left  the  premises,  or  had  sunk 
under  the  weight  of  her  neglect.  She  observed 
a  light,  however,  from  a  small  window  in  the 
gable  end  of  the  kitchen ;  and  while  she  was  con- 
jecturing the  cause,  the  cellar-door  was  opened^ 
and  the  form  of  a  woman  arose  from  the  steps, 
who,  perceiving  a  stranger  in  the  garden,  paused.* 
as  if  awaiting  her  approach.  "  Who  can  this 
be  ?"  whispered  the  forlorn  wanderer  to  herself. 
— "  Michael  surely  is  not  re-married — or  has  the 
house  fallen  to  some  other  occupant  ?"  "  Who 
are  you,"  demanded  the  ill-natured  voice  of  a 
withered  woman,  "  disturbing  our  rest  at  this  un- 
seasonable hour?  Can  it  be  the  ghost  of  Mi- 
hael's  wife — or  is  it  some  beggar  that  comes  to 
demand  a  night's  lodging  ?"  "  For  the  love  of 
heaven,"  the  other  inquired,  "  inform  me  whether 
Michael  is  yet  living,  and  is  it  possible  that  I  can 
see  him  ?"  "  Living,  indeed,"  drawled  out  the 
other ;  "  if  lying  on  a  death-bed  be  what  you 
call  living !  he  is  alive  enough,  I  trust,  and  as  to 
your  seeing  him  to-night,  it  will  cost  you  more 
steps  than  I  am  willing  to  take  in  showing  you ; 
so  your  best  way  is  to  decamp  from  this  yard,  or 
I'll  call  the  old  watchdog  to  your  assistance,  for 
I  warrant  you  have  no  good  designs  to  be  wan- 


IS 

denng  alone  in  other  people's  property."  Retreat- 
ing like  a  culprit  from  her  former  home,  she  re- 
traced her  way  to  the  garden  gate,  but  perceived 
that  her  servant-man  was  gone — and  to  her  dis- 
may, observed   that  the  hole  was  re-dug,  and 
the  box  removed.     Suspicion  flashed  upon  her 
mind,  that  her  attendant  must  have  secured  it  in 
the  interval  of  her  absence.     Fear  and  despair 
took  possession  of  her  soul,  as  she  dwelt  upon 
her  situation.     She  called  for  her  domestic,  but 
she  was  only  answered  by  the  growls  of  a  fierce 
mastiff,  disputing  over  the  fence  for  his  right  to  the 
grounds.     "  You  may  willingly  have  them  ,"  ex- 
claimed the  weary  woman ;  "  box,  property,  and 
all,  only  give  me  back  my  husband,  and  the  peace 
of  mind  which  I  have  forfeited."     She  heard  a 
quick  step  behind  her,  and  a  voice  demanding 
"  Who  's  there  ?"     Concealment  was  vain ;    for 
faint  and  weary,  she  clung  for  support  to  the  ban- 
nisters of  a  piazza,  on  which  she  had  sat  in  more 
happy  days ;  and  saw  by  her  side  a  tall,  uncouth 
figure  leaning  inquisitively  on  her,  and  calling  her 
by  the  name  of  her  injured  husband.     "  Where — 
oh,  where  can  I  find   Michael  ?"  her  lips  were 
just  able  to  repeat.     "  If  that  be  all  you  want," 
said  the  other,  carelessly,  "  I'll  bring  you  to  him 
in  a  trice."     Supported  by  her  companion,  she 


14 

was  conducted  to  a  small  cottage  without  the  vil- 
lage, where,  informing  her  that  she  could  find 
Michael,  he  left  her  at  the  door  to  the  anguish  of 
her  reflections.  The  house  was,  doubtless,  closed 
for  the  night ;  but  a  dim  light  shone  from  one  of 
the  windows,  and  a  murmuring  voice  within 
aroused  her  to  the  melancholy  of  her  situation. 
She  was  about  meeting  an  injured  husband ;  the 
victim,  it  is  true,  of  many  faults  and  infirmities  ; 
but  still  he  was  her  husband;  perhaps  expiring, 
as  she  believed,  from  the  cruelty  of  her  conduct. 
How  could  she  endure  his  look — what  apology 
offer — how  avert  his  deserved  reproaches  ?  She 
knocked  at  the  door  with  a  trembling  hand,  and 
a  feeble  cry  answered  from  the  chamber,  to 
"  Come  in ;"  when,  raising  the  latch,  she  felt  the 
door  yielding  to  her  pressure ;  and  she  was  stand- 
ing in  the  presence  of  Michael,  extended  on 
his  dying  bed,  preparing  to  render  up  his  ac- 
counts. The  room  was  feebly  lighted  by  a 
flaring  taper  in  the  chimney,  and  a  boy  was 
standing  at  the  bed-side  administering  to  the  last 
moments  of  the  dying  man.  "  Doctor,  you  have 
arrived  too  late,"  exclaimed  the  quivering  lips  of 
threescore  years ;  "  but  why  not  come  before  ?" 
44 1  have  come  indeed,"  replied  the  guilty  daughter 
of  sorrow. "  to  bind  up  the  wounds  which  I  have 


inflicted,  and  atone  for  the  injury  you  have  sus- 
tained." "  Is  that  the  voice  of  Adelaide,"  returned 
the  reviving  sufferer,  "  or  is  it  her  spirit  from  the 
grave,  come  to  warn  me  of  my  departure  ?"     "  I 
am  no  spirit,  Michael,  but  your  own  wretched 
wife,  who  has  ruined  your  temporal  and  domestic 
comforts,  and  is  kneeling  at  your  side  to  express 
the  penitence  she  feels."  "  Oh,  it  is  too  late,"  mur- 
mured the  dying  man ;  "  I  cannot  curse  you,  Ade- 
laide, for  money  has  been  my  idol ;  it  was  the 
loss  of  that,  more  than  yourself,  that  has  reduced 
me  to  what  you  see;  but  we  can  only  profit  by 
the  past — since  we  cannot  recall  it ;  for  I  feel  that 
avarice  has  not  only  ruined  me,  but — "  "  Say  it 
was  my  extravagance,"  sobbed  the  other, "  that 
led  me  to  defraud  you — and  break  the  wretched 
heart  that  here  lies  fluttering  before  me;  Oh, 
could  I  restore  the  past,  how  differently  would  I 
have  acted !  but  the  cursed  box  is  gone,  and — " 
"  You  have  not  spent  them  all  ?"  the  aged  miser 
inquired,  his  eyes  lighted  up  by  the  fire  of  his 
ruling  passion.     The  other  had  no  opportunity  to 
reply,  for  a  deep  groan  broke  from  the  expiring 
pillow ;  and,  after  a  dreary  pause,  the  aged  man 
resumed,  "  Adelaide,  I  am  dying :  I  will  not  leave 
you  pennyless,  though  my  precious  box  has  gone 
— after  my  death,  you  will  find  about  me  all  that 


Iti 

1  can  leave  you — but  oh,  I  have  sinned  against 
the  hope  of  forgiveness,  and — "  "  But  there  is  a 
precious  Saviour,"  said  the  weeping  wife,  "•  that 
can  wash  the  penitent  clean ;  for  it  is  written, '  all 
manner  of  sins  shall  be  forgiven  unto  men.' ' 
Strange  as  it  may  seem,  the  guilty  woman 
prayed  in  all  the  fervency  of  her  soul  for  her 
companion ;  and,  at  the  close,  his  eye  was  lighted 
up  with  a  more  than  common  smile.  "  Adelaide," 
he  muttered,  "  you  have  come  to  close  my  dying 
eyes — would  it  had  been  always  thus !  but  oh — may 
we  meet  to  part  no  more,  in  a  better  and  hap- 
pier  world !"  The  spirit  of  Michael  soon  departed, 
and  Adelaide  was  a  widow  :  but,  though  entirely 
destitute,  she  felt  in  what  she  had  performed,  a 
consolation  which  worlds  were  unable  to  bestow. 

Michael  sold  his  house  immediately  after  the 
loss  of  his  treasures;  and  converting  it  into 
money,  purchased  the  cottage,  where  his  trou- 
bles reduced  him  to  the  grave.  True  to  him- 
self, he  had  fastened  his  gold  in  a  flannel  waist- 
coat, next  his  body ;  and  it  was  not  until  he  was 
laid  out  that  Adelaide  was  aware  of  the  fact. 
Her  servant  was  soon  apprehended,  and  the  fatal 
box  restored  to  its  mistress,  who  had  learned  to 
abhor  the  effects  of  prodigality  and  avarice. 


THE    CHURCH    PRISONER. 


'Tis  liberty  alone  that  gives  the  flower 
Of  fleeting  life  its  lustre  and  perfume, 
And  we  are  weeds  without  it. — COWPER. 


THE  legend  of  American  recollection  abounds 
with  a  rich  variety  of  incidents,  confined  alone 
to  the  social  circle,  or  the  ear  of  a  few  favoured 
friends ;  unless,  perchance,  some  inquisitive  an- 
tiquary patiently  investigates,  and  rescues  them 
from  oblivion.  It  is  a  source  of  regret,  that  so 
many  facts,  in  the  possession  of  the  aged,  who 
bore  a  conspicuous  part  in  the  revolutionary 
struggle,  should  lie  entombed  in  their  remem- 
brance, when  the  eyes  that  witnessed,  and  the 
hands  which  achieved  them,  will  be  shortly  dim 
and  cold  in  the  grave.  The  rising  generation 
around  us  will  soon  be  unable  to  identify  the 
spots,  hallowed  by  memorable  deeds;  and  all 
that  will  remain  of  many  past  exploits  will  be  a 
dark  tradition,  varied  by  contradictory  accounts 

No,  VII.— :>. 


18 

of  the  listeners ;  until,  for  want  of  satisfactory 
evidence,  they  will  altogether  fade  from  the  me- 
mory. Whenever  I  behold  an  aged  American, 
who  has  journeyed  down  to  us  through  the  vi- 
cissitudes of  threescore  years  and  ten,  I  not  only 
contemplate  a  chronicler  of  past  events,  but  a 
witness  of  the  protection  and  providence  of 
Heaven.  With  sentiments  like  these,  I  visited,  a 
few  days  ago,  an  aged  gentleman,  by  the  name 
of  Doughty,  whose  recollections  furnished  me 
with  the  following  remarkable  facts. 

Linton  Doughty  was  a  young  farmer  of  Mon- 
mouth  county,  New-Jersey,  and  while  the  British 
had  the  controul  of  New-York,  was  drafted  from 
the  militia  to  protect  the  shores  from  invasion, 
and    give  notice  of  every  movement,  both  on 
land  and  water,  annoying  to  the  American  arms. 
The  country  about  the  seashore  was  extremely 
uneven  and  woody,  so  that  parties  of  soldiers 
might  clandestinely  approach,  and  not  become 
visible  till  upon  the  enemy ;  and  on  this  account 
the  sentinels  had  but  little  opportunity  of  alarm- 
ing the  main  guard  in  season.    News  had  arrived, 
of  a  large  body  of  the  English  marching  across 
the  country  in  their  direction,  and  the  Major  of 


19 

»he  battalion  immediately  ordered  about  twenty 
of  the  bravest  men  that  could  be  selected,  to 
stand  on  guard  that  night,  as  every  thing  depend- 
ed on  the  valour  of  those  employed.  Doughty 
was  among  the  number ;  and  was  distinguished 
for  his  courage  and  prudence;  being  bravely 
resolved,  not  to  be  surprised  by  the  best  con- 
certed movements  of  the  enemy.  He  was  sta- 
tioned in  a  thick  wood,  about  a  mile  from  the 
main  body,  and  his  peremptory  orders  were,  to 
fire  whenever  he  heard  the  least  motion  or 
noise.  It  was  a  bright,  moonlight  night ;  and  he 
stood  behind  one  of  the  tall  trees,  watching  the 
variations  of  light  and  shadow  which  the  waving 
branches  produced.  The  dead  silence  was  in- 
terrupted by  the  rustling  of  a  distant  tree,  with 
the  tramp  of  feet ;  and  the  figure  of  several  per- 
sons were  seen  stealing  before  him ;  when  the 
quivering  moonbeams  revealed  the  dress  of  Eng- 
lish soldiers.  He  immediately  fired  his  gun, 
which  was  directly  answered  by  several  of  the 
company.  He  heard  the  balls  whizzing  along 
the  branches,  but  he  felt  that  he  was  safe.  Re- 
treating in  the  direction  of  his  regiment,  he  found 
that  his  own  camp  had  been  surprised  by  an 
overpowering  force ;  and  he  was  accordingly  cap- 


tured  with  the  rest,  and  escorted  to  New-York, 
to  become  prisoner  of  war,  in  the  Dutch  Re- 
formed Church  in  William-street.     It  was  a  spa- 
cious stone  building,  without  a  spire,  enclosed 
by  a  white  paled  fence,  more  thoroughly  secured 
by  high  joist  pickets,  to  prevent  the  escape  of 
the  American  prisoners.     A  tavern  was  kept  in 
a  corner  of  the  yard,  by  one  Varnum,  the  captain 
of  the  prison,  and  a  sort  of  sutler,  who  made 
considerable  money  in  retailing  liquors  to  the 
soldiers,  and  the  friends  who  came  to  visit  them. 
The  condition  of  the  church  beggared  all  de- 
scription.    The  ceiling  and  pillars,  which  might 
have  been  formerly  white,  were  yellowed  by  the 
exhalations  of  vapour  and  tobacco  smoke  con- 
tinually rising.     Large   pieces  of  the  side-wall 
were  broken  off,  from  the  yawning  lathes,  through 
which  the  hungry  rats  and  mice  were  constantly 
scampering;  and  the  deep  windows  were  filled 
with  tangled  cobwebs  and  dust,  that  almost  de- 
barred the  admittance  of  the  light.     The  gallery 
pews  were  still  standing,  but  their  doors  had  been 
broken  off  to  manufacture  three-legged  stools ; 
and  the  floor  of  the  former  had  been  torn  up  in 
many  places  by  the  noisy  crew,  exposing  the 
naked  rafters  to  observation.     On  the  ground- 


21 

floor,  nothing  but  the  pulpit  was  standing,  whose 
dark  mahogany  aspect  seemed  in  mourning  for 
the  sacrilege  around  it.  The  prisoners,  for 
amusement,  were,  in  one  direction,  pitching 
quoits,  in  another,  playing  fives  against  the  walls. 
At  other  times  they  would  foot  away  cotillons, 
hornpipes,  and  four-handed  reels — while  others,  of 
a  serious  mood,  would  huddle  in  dull  communion, 
and  prose  over  the  adventures  and  consequences 
of  the  war.  The  great  difficulty  in  dancing  was 
the  attainment  of  proper  music — the  coarse  hum- 
ming of  one  of  the  party  only  serving  as  their 
band.  But  Doughty  was  a  cabinet-maker,  and 
with  the  assistance  of  a  carpenter,  and  a  person, 
by  the  name  of  Williams,  who  was  a  professed 
musician,  had  the  hardihood  to  demolish  the 
pulpit,  and  manufacture  violins  from  its  pannel- 
work^  which,  with  the  addition  of  catgut,  in  the 
possession  of  one  of  the  company,  composed 
tolerable  instruments  to  amuse  most  of  their  me- 
lancholy hours.  But  all  this  was  miserable  bu- 
siness for  Doughty,  who  was  dreaming  rather  of 
military  triumphs,  than  tuning  up  silly  jigs  in  a 
church.  He  accordingly  determined  to  escape. 
He  thought,  that  if  he  could  so  manage  it  as  to 
be  put  upon  the  sick  list,  and  sent  to  the  hospital. 


that  he  should  have  a  better  chance  of  success, 
'than  among  vigilant  guards,  and  lofty  picket 
fences.  Knowing  that  tobacco  made  him  deadly 
sick,  he  chewed,  one  night,  a  considerable  quan- 
tity, and  the  next  morning  he  feared,  in  good 
earnest,  that  he  had  carried  the  joke  almost  too 
far.  The  physician  felt  his  pulse — shook  his  head, 
and  giving  his  opinion  that  the  rascal  had  merely 
a  sick  stomach,  precluded,  at  least  for  that  time, 
his  favourite  design.  The  next  attempt  was  in 
concert  with  several  others,  to  endeavour,  during 
the  inattention  of  the  sentry,  to  break  through 
the  pickets,  surrounding  the  churchyard.  The 
prisoners  were  allowed,  throughout  the  day,  to 
come  without  the  walls,  and  amuse  themselves  in 
whatever  way  they  pleased.  It  was  concerted, 
that  while  the  sentinels  were  walking  at  either 
end  of  the  building,  a  number  of  prisoners  should 
crowd  around  them,  and  in  that  manner  prevent 
their  observation  of  what  was  transpiring. 
Among  the  rest  was  John  Paul  ding,  who  was 
also  desirous  with  Doughty  of  deliverance  from 
his  captivity.  On  the  following  day  the  adven- 
turous scheme  was  attempted.  The  guard  was 
accordingly  blinded  by  the  stratagem,  and  John 
Paulding  was  the  first  that  escaped  through  thr 


pickets:  and  immediately,  as  if  Providence  so 
designed,  was  present  at  Tarrytown  to  arrest 
Major  Andre ;  so  that  the  freedom  of  one  person 
became  the   death-warrant  of  another.    After 
Paulding,  another  fortunately  followed ;  but  when 
it  came    to  Doughty's  turn,  a  woman,  from  a 
neighbouring  window,  notified  the  sentinels  that 
their  charge  was  making  off,  so  that  disappoint- 
ment again  mocked  the  wishes  of  our  hero.     He 
was  not  however  to  be  damped  by  failure,  for  it 
was  his  favourite  motto,  that  difficulty  was  the 
highway  to  success.     He  accordingly  conceived 
a  project,  which  he  communicated  to  his  fellow- 
prisoners,  as  bold  in  its  conception,  as  difficult  in 
its  results.     It  was  to  dig  a  hole  under  the  foun- 
dation of  the  church,  and  excavate  a  passage 
into    an  opposite  neighbouring   house.     It  de- 
manded all  his  cunning  to  devise  the  method  and 
place  of  commencing  operations,  so  as  to  elude 
observation,  if  suspicion  should  be  excited.     He 
had  a  large  case  knife,  which  a  file  soon  con- 
verted into  a  saw,  and  pieces  of  plank  were  easily 
made  into  spades.    Under  both  stairs,  there  were 
large  closets  with  doors,  and  into  one  of  these 
our  resolute  veteran  entered,  and  his  first  bu- 
siness was  to  saw  out  a  place  from  the  floor  suf- 


24 

iiciently  large  to  admit  several  persons.    The 
work  was  to  be  effected  at  night,  when  a  candle 
could  be  safely  introduced  within  the  closet,  and 
no   suspicion  could  be  indulged  of  what  was 
going    on  in  the  church.      Those  disposed  to 
escape  were  divided  into  two  parties ;  the  one  to 
take  their  turn  in  digging,  the  other  to  convey 
the  dirt  beneath  the  floor  of  the  gallery.     It  was 
extremely  difficult  to  move  the  ground,  on  ac- 
count of  the  numberless  stones  impeding  their 
way;  but,  at  length,  sufficient  progress  was  made 
to  learn  the  difficulty  of  the  undertaking.     It  is 
surprising  with  what   silence  and   secrecy  the 
work  was  conducted.     The  weather  being  warm, 
the  prisoners  took  off  their  shoes ;  and  preserving 
the  deepest  silence,  laboured  up  and  down  stairs 
without  a  suspicion  from  without,  that  the  least 
design  was  in  operation  among  them.     They 
dug  about  ten  feet  before  they  attempted  to  pur- 
sue a  horizontal  course  towards  the  street;  and 
here  they  found  a  soft  clay  soil,  less  resisting 
to  the  shovel,  and  forming,  by  its  continuity,  an 
artificial  arch  above  their  heads.     The  aperture 
was  just  large  enough  to  admit  them  on  their 
hands  and  knees,  and  after  patiently  toiling,  they 
arrived  under  the  solid  foundation.    They  con- 


25 

tmued  undermining  the  wall  which  was  eight  feet 
thick,  when  they  were  partially  obstructed  by  seve- 
ral of  the  heavy  stones  breaking  away  from  above, 
which,  after  considerable  assiduity  they  removed 
to  their  reservoir  in  the  gallery.  They  perceived 
that  they  were  working  immediately  under  the 
churchyard,  for  they  distinctly  understood  the 
conversation  of  the  sentinels,  whose  heavy  steps 
above  their  heads  sounded  most  dolefully  to  their 
ears.  As  it  was  impossible  to  ascertain,  under 
ground,  the  distance  to  be  pursued,  Doughty 
paced,  during  the  day,  the  exact  space  from  the 
church  to  the  pickets ;  and  comparing  the  breadth 
of  the  street  with  the  measurement  thus  taken, 
observed  the  same  plan  in  the  subterranean  pas- 
sage. To  determine  the  course,  it  was  only  re- 
quisite, while  he  was  below,  that  several  of  the 
party  should  walk  heavily  over  head,  in  the  pre- 
cise direction  which  they  were  to  take.  Having 
perforated  a  chasm  of  more  than  thirty  feet,  they 
arrived  at  a  stone  wall,  which,  they  conjectured, 
was  the  foundation  of  the  opposite  building ;  and 
it  being  broad  day-break,  they  agreed  to  wait 
till  the  following  night,  when  they  were  resolved 
to  succeed  or  perish  in  the  attempt.  It  so  hap- 
pened, that  the  prisoners  were  examined,  every 

^o.  VII.— 4 


morning,  alternately,  by  an  English  and  Hessian 
officer,  and  it  fell  to  the  turn  of  the  Hessian 
commander  to  inspect  the  captives  that  day. 
While  scanning  them  over,  his  eye  singled  out 
a  fellow  whom  he  accused  of  deserting  from  the 
Hessian  infantry,  and  he  threatened  him  with  in- 
stant death  for  taking  up  arms  with  the  rebels. 
His  countenance  turned  deadly  pale,  and  his 
companions  supposed  that  his  fate  was  absolutely 
sealed.  In  a  few  hours,  he  was  conducted  from 
the  yard  by  a  file  of  soldiers,  and  he  bade  his 
associates  farewell,  regarding  himself  in  the  con- 
dition of  a  dead  man. 

It  was  about  evening  when  the  Hessian  de- 
serter left  the  yard;  and  every  one  being  too 
deeply  engrossed  in  his  own  safety,  forgot  the 
circumstance  in  preparation  for  the  approaching 
adventure.  The  church-door  was  locked,  as 
usual,  for  the  night,  and  all  but  those  too  cow- 
ardly to  purchase  freedom,  were  alive  with  ex- 
pectation to  descend  into  the  cavern.  It  was  a 
moment,  indeed,  of  considerable  solicitude,  since 
it  was  to  decide  the  termination  of  their  inglo- 
rious captivity,  and  arm  the  darkest  vengeance 
against  them,  in  case  of  being  discovered.  They 


27 

felt  that  their  country  demanded  their  services  ifi 
rescuing  her  from  a  thraldom  so  unnatural  to 
be  maintained,  and  unsarictioned  by  laws  both 
human  and  divine.  To  minds  like  theirs,  wea- 
ried by  long  continued  subjection,  in  a  building 
too  sacrilegiously  distorted  into  a  miserable 
dungeon,  and  on  the  very  soil  where  most  of 
them  drew  their  first  breath  of  life,  any  means 
were  adopted  to  escape  from  confinement,  and 
punish  the  violators  of  their  liberty.  Provided 
with  a  dark-lantern,  the  intrepid  Doughty  first 
ventured  down  the  secret  cavity,  desiring  the 
rest  to  follow,  whenever  they  heard  the  signal  of 
his  call;  so  that  in  case  he  succeeded  in  work- 
ing through  the  wall,  he  would  certainly  notify  his 
anxious  companions.  They  were  aware  that  no 
one  was  more  capable  than  himself,  of  regulating 
the  plan ;  and  that,  even  in  case  of  surprise,  it 
were  better  that  one  should  suffer,  than  that  all 
should  be  implicated  in  the  penalty.  Having  di- 
rected one  of  their  number  to  listen  at  the  closet, 
they  waited  in  the  church,  a  considerable  time,  to 
catch  the  welcome  message  of  their  precursor. 
Nearly  an  hour  had  elapsed,  and  the  voice  of 
Doughty  was  unheard.  Disappointed,  and  as- 
tonished, severa,!  of  the  party  were  preparing  to 


28 

descend,  when,  on  a  sudden,  the  heavy  church- 
door  creaked  upon  its  hinges,  and  the  hasty 
trampling  of  feet  indicated  that  something  un- 
usual was  about  to  happen.  As  quick  as  thought, 
the  appearance  of  a  file  of  soldiers  silenced  ob- 
servation, and  they  were  directing  their  steps  to 
the  subterranean  chasm.  "  Is  this  the  way,  you 
rebels,"  roared  out  a  corporal-looking  fellow, 
"  that  you  manifest  your  gratitude  for  the  favours 
you  have  received  ?  But  chains,  with  bread  and 
water,  will  soon  cool  down  the  ringleaders !"  Se- 
veral of  those  standing  near  the  closet  were 
taken  into  custody,  and  instantly  ordered  to  be 
carried  to  the  guard-house;  while  the  others 
were  required  to  fill  up  the  hole  with  the  mate- 
rials which  were  taken  from  it.  "  But  first  let 
the  place  be  examined !"  said  the  crusty  soldier, 
making  motion  for  one  of  the  troop  to  venture 
below ;  but  all  expressing  some  reluctance,  the 
cavity  was  filled  up  with  a  pile  of  rubbish  and 
stones,  and  a  double  floor  was  immediately 
nailed  over  the  entrance.  The  enclosures  were 
soon  also  removed  from  under  the  stairs,  that 
the  whole  of  the  lower  floor  might  be  laid 
open  to  the  inspection  of  the  soldiers.  The  un- 
fortunate fellows,  found  near  the  closet,  were 


29 

hurried  to  the  guard-house,  where  they  were  sen- 
tenced to  ten  days'  confinement,  on  bread  and 
water,  in  the  darkest  dungeon  of  the  Prevot,  now 
the  old  jail. 

But  where  was  Doughty  all  this  time  ?  He 
had  crept  slowly  along  the  passage ;  and  while 
under  the  yard,  he  overheard  a  conversation 
above  his  head,  apparently  that  of  the  sentinels. 
"  Have  you  been  told  of  the  prisoners'  plot,"  said 
a  rough  voice,  "  which  the  Hessian  deserter  has 
divulged  to  the  officers ;  was  n't  he  a  cunning 
dog  to  save  his  life  at  so  trifling  an  expense  ?" 
u  Confusion  upon  them  !"  replied  the  other ;  "  I 
have  heard  of  the  cunning  scheme,  and  I  have 
no  doubt  that  the  foxes  are  grubbing  already 
under  ground ;  but  they  will  sing  a  different  tune 
when  they  see  over  their  heads  the  guns  of  our 
soldiers.  But  hark  !  let  us  endeavour  to  listen  if 
any  thing  is  going  on  below !"  Doughty,  at  this 
moment,  almost  drew  in  his  breath,  for  fear  of 
being  heard — but  the  conversation  changing  on 
another  less  important  topic,  he  began  to  de- 
liberate whether  or  not  he  should  return.  He  re- 
collected, that  if  he  went  back,  he  was  certain  of 
slavery :  and.  that  to  remain  where  he  was. 


30 

would  be  a  strong  probability  of  escape.  He 
knew  that  not  a  moment  must  be  lost.  Guided 
by  his  lantern,  whose  dark  side  he  turned  to  him- 
self, he  commenced  sapping,  with  his  tools, 
the  foundation  of  the  building ;  but  feared,  from 
the  solidity  of  the  mason-work,  the  impossibility 
of  securing  an  entrance.  While  thus  engaged,  the 
clattering  of  feet  were  heard  over-head,  and  the 
opening  of  the  church-door,  attended  by  the  loud 
hum  of  the  party.  He  was  almost  certain  of 
being  dragged  from  his  concealment,  and  made 
an  example  to  the  rest  of  the  prisoners.  But  he 
had  no  friend  now,  but  his  own  fortitude,  to  con- 
sult ;  and  he  was  excited  to  persevere,  in  spite  of 
the  dangers  which  hung  over  his  head.  Willingly 
would  he  have  gone  back,  could  that  mitigate  the 
penalty  of  his  companions,  and  rescue  him  from 
the  danger  which  he  was  so  fearlessly  braving. 
The  idea  too  of  being  murdered,  or  buried  alive, 
was  too  excruciating  for  his  fancy  to  dwell  on ; 
but  if  unsuccessful  in  the  object  of  his  enter- 
prise, what  alternative  was  left  but  to  return  to 
the  prison?  What  was  his  dismay,  when  he 
heard  the  noise  of  stones  and  other  rubbish  fill- 
ing up  the  cavity ;  and  his  lamp  extinguished  by  a 
sudden  current  of  wind,  left  him  overwhelmed  by 


the  most  oppressive  darkness.  The  damp  air 
began  to  breathe  heavily,  and  the  horrible  sen- 
sation, for  the  moment,  came  over  him,  that,  per- 
haps, he  might  perish  for  want  of  air.  The  con- 
finement of  his  associates  appeared  perfect 
liberty,  compared  to  his  own  abandonment ;  and 
he  almost  resolved  to  clear  out  the  avenue 
through  which  he  had  waded.  But  a  moment's 
reflection  taught  him  that  he  had  the  power,  per- 
haps, of  effecting  his  escape,  and  avenging  the 
wrongs  of  his  country.  His  courage  became,  more 
than  ordinarily,  emboldened.  The  stones  began 
to  crumble  more  easily  away,  and,  by  degrees,  he 
succeeded  in  perforating  an  aperture  into  a  cel- 
lar, where  he  saw  hogsheads,  barrels,  and  lumber 
of  various  kinds ;  but  hearing  the  sound  of  foot- 
steps, and  the  echo  of  voices,  he  paused  for  a 
while;  and  all  again  being  still,  he  climbed 
through  the  hole  into  the  cellar,  and  taking  re- 
fuge behind  two  immense  casks,  he  was  deter- 
mined to  wait  there  till  assured  of  his  safety  in 
venturing  forward.  To  his  chagrin,  he  listened 
again  to  the  approach  of  persons  down  the  steps, 
who,  coming  to  the  butts,  behind  which  he  was 
secreted,  began  to  bore  a  hole  in  one  of  them  as 
if  intending  to  draw  off  the  contents ;  and  while 


turning  the  gimblet,  one  of  them  observed, 
"  What  a  fine  posse  of  soldiers,  Bill ;  doubtless 
they  are  drinking  like  fishes  to  the  confusion  of 
the  prisoners'  plot."  "  Avast  there,  Tom,'*  cried 
the  other,  u  draw  away  for  your  life,  for  so  much 
talking  over  the  ale  will  certainly  turn  it  sour." 
"  They  say,"  returned  the  other,  "  that  one  of  the 
rebels  has  escaped  through  the  hole,  but  I  hope 
that  he  '11  not  appear  to  us  in  the  cellar,  or  by 
the  hair  of  my  head  I'll  souse  him  in  the  beer  to 
his  chin ;  but  dont  you  hear  something  moving  ?" 
"  Nothing,  you  ninny,"  said  his  comrade,  "  but 
the  beer  gurgling  from  the  cask,  and  if  you  don't 
mind,  it  will  overrun  the  measure."  At  this  in- 
stant, the  pipe  rolled  on  Doughty 's  left  foot, 
and  occasioned  a  hollow  groan  from  behind. 
"  Powers  of  mud !"  screamed  the  fellows,  taking 
to  their  heels  up  stairs,  with  the  rapidity  of  squir- 
rels, forgetful  of  their  lantern  and  the  escape  of 
the  foaming  beer.  Our  hero  was  bold  enough  to 
take  a  hearty  sup ;  and  suffering  the  cellar  to  en- 
joy a  deeper  draught,  he  fled  through  an  area  into 
the  yard;  and  while  the  landlord  and  soldiers 
were  searching  for  the  ghost,  he  escaped  through 
the  darkness  to  a  friend's  house,  from  which  he 
speedily  joined  the  American  army. 


CONVERSATIONS 


THOMAS    PAINE. 


The  mind  was  still  all  there  ;  but  turn'd  astray  :— 
A  wandering  bark,  upon  whose  pathway  shone 
All  stars  of  heaven,  except  the  guiding  one. 

T.  MOOKE. 


ILLUSTRIOUS  minds  have  existed,  who  have  de- 
nied the  credibility  of  scripture,  and  ascribed  to 
the  dimness  of  reason  all  the  mental  and  moral 
light  which  they  enjoy :  but  they  were  intellects 
which,  enslaved  and  corrupted  by  the  world,  re- 
nounced a  system  so  mortifying  to  their  passions, 
and  so  ruinous,  if  true,  to  their  everlasting  peace. 
As  the  rays  of  light,  transmitted  through  a  dense 
medium,  prevent  the  eye  from  correctly  viewing 
the  object,  so  the  unhappy  medium  through 
which  revelation  is  beheld,  either  veils  it  in  con- 
tradiction and  absurdity,  or  exhibits  it  in  a 
different  language  from  that  originally  intended. 

No.  VIII.— i 


34 

Indebted  to  the  Bible  for  every  public  and  do- 
mestic privilege,  and  illuminated  and  warmed  by 
its  holy  and  invigorating  beams,  the  skeptic  un- 
fairly places  reason  upon  the  throne  of  the  uni- 
verse, when  she  is  merely  the  pupil  of  a  greater 
and  wiser  power.  It  is  as  absurd  as  if  the  scho- 
lar should  deny  that  he  was  indebted  to  education 
for  the  light  that  he  possessed ;  and  maintain  that 
the  powers  of  unassisted  intellect  are  capable  of 
directing  him  on  his  way.  If  reason  be  thus  predo- 
minant, let  an  instance  be  shown  of  any  barbarous 
nation  ever  civilizing  itself — ever  turning  from 
the  darkness  of  savage  ignorance,  until  enlight- 
ened and  purified  by  Christianity ; — and  the  palm 
of  victory  shall  be  decided  in  its  favour.  The 
classic  nations,  though  from  their  proximity  to 
the  Jews,  they  must,  doubtless,  have  received  a 
considerable  portion  of  sacred  light,  never  rose 
higher  in  the  scale  than  civilized  barbarians  ;  for 
the  imperfection  of  their  philosophy,  and  the 
corruptions  of  their  moral  code,  evidence  how 
low,  compared  with  the  Christian  world,  they 
were  sunk  in  the  shades  of  error.  To  the 
association  of  their  sages  with  the  prophets  of 
Judea,  they  may  have  been  entirely  indebted 
for  all  their  improvement ;  and  hence  the  lofty 


pinnacle  they  reached,  affects  not,  in  the  least  de- 
gree, the  issue  of  the  question.  The  living  fact 
evidenced  these  eighteen  hundred  years  past  that 
no  nation  has  attained  intellectual  and  moral 
worth,  until  refined  by  Christianity,  is  sufficient 
to  prove,  that  reason  is  indebted  to  the  wisdom 
that  is  from  heaven.  To  elevate  reason  above  the 
latter,  is,  as  if  the  astronomer  should  ascribe  to 
the  moon  the  sole  power  of  enlightening,  and 
forget  that  she  was  only  an  auxiliary  to  the  sun 
that  is  invisible.  Were  the  evidences  of  Chris- 
tianity weak  and  fallacious,  it  would  manifest  a 
sickly  spirit  in  questioning  its  claims ;  for  who 
would  not  rather  desire  that  so  glorious  a  system 
should  prove  true,  than  that  infidelity  should 
usurp  the  supremacy?  What  possessor  of  an 
estate  is  constantly  labouring  to  discern  flaws  in 
his  title,  but  does  not  rather  substantiate  its  va- 
lidity in  despite  of  every  suspicion  ?  If  the  hopes 
of  heaven  were  half  as  valuable  in  their  estima- 
tion, men  would  feel  more  interest  in  defending 
than  in  weakening  their  authority.  The  adversa- 
ries of  the  Bible,  then,  ought  to  reverse  their  con- 
duct, by  first  examining  the  testimony  which  es- 
tablishes its  authenticity,  before  they  proceed  to 
canvass  their  objections. 


The  prevalence  of  skepticism  too  often  arises 
from  a  laxity  of  morals,  which  rivets  the  mind 
to  a  perusal  of  the  objections  against  Christianity, 
and  a  familiarity  with  those  sarcastically  hostile 
to  its  promotion.  A  sneering  laugh  has  often 
more  weight  with  the  multitude  than  the  most 
powerful  arguments ;  and  majority  of  names  have 
effected  more  than  the  deepest  learning,  or  the 
purest  light  of  example.  It  is  certain,  however, 
that  thousands  oppose  the  gospel,  more  from  the 
restraints  of  pride,  and  the  persuasions  of  cor- 
rupt associates,  than  from  the  power  of  convic- 
tion derived  from  sober  and  patient  investiga- 
tion ;  and  that  oftentimes  the  tears  of  penitence 
would  fall,  and  the  chains  of  infidelity  be  broken, 
were  they  not  frozen  and  forged  by  the  sneers  and 
opposition  of  the  abandoned.  The  hope  of 

being  recorded  in  the  annals  of  posterity — the 

t      • 

passion  for  novelty  attracting  a  crowd  of  follow- 
ers— the  mortification  of  renouncing  one's  own 
opinion,  and  pursuing  the  track  we  formerly  de- 
spised, too  often  render  the  mind  impenetrable  to 
the  convictions  of  religion.  That  it  was  the 
case  with  Thomas  Paine,  the  author  of  "  The 
Age  of  Reason,"  I  am  strongly  persuaded,  from  a 
conversation  which  a  friend  of  mine  enjoyed 


37 

with  him,  not  long  previous  to  his  death.  My 
liberal-minded  friend  always  respected  genius 
wherever  it  shone,  and  was  desirous  of  visiting 
that  extraordinary  man,  to  learn  whether  he 
was  the  monster  as  had  been  represented, 
and  discover,  if  possible,  his  predominant  senti- 
ments. The  conversation  may  be  relied  on ;  and 
as  I  am  in  no  respects  disposed  to  caricature  the 
picture,  every  circumstance  shall  be  recorded 
precisely  as  it  occurred. 

Having  learned  from  some  of  the  papers  that 
Thomas  Paine  had  lately  published  his  work  on 
"  Dreams,"  my  friend  considered  this  an  excel- 
lent excuse  to  visit  him.  His  lodgings  were  on 
the  south  side  of  the  Bear  market,  near  Green- 
wich-Street ;  and  he  was  pointed  out  sitting  at 
an  upper  window,  apparently  engaged  in  writ- 
ing. The  weather  was  sultry,  and  the  windows 
and  doors  were  invitingly  open:  so,  without 
ceremony,  my  informant  entered  the  apartment, 
fearful,  on  the  one  hand,  of  improperly  in- 
truding, and  of  arousing,  on  the  other,  the  in- 
dignation of  the  occupant.  His  room  embraced 
the  whole  width  of  the  house,  the  floor  and 
walls  of  which  were  remarkably  filthy.  In  the 


north-east  corner,  behind  a  jointed  screen,  was 
discernible  a  pal'et-bed,  upon  the  floor,  covered 
with  papers.  In  the  opposite  angle  was  a 
large  trunk ;  and  at  the  other,  a  disorderly 
pile  of  several  scores  of  pamphlets.  Before 
Mr.  Paine,  at  the  middle  window,  stood  a 
crazy  table,  containing  a  decanter  with  some 
liquor,  a  tumbler,  with  a  broken-eared  pitcher — 
a  huge  snufF-box  well  filled  with  rappee,  and  an- 
other without  a  cover,  containing  some  loose 
change,  while  several  newspapers  were  lying  in- 
discriminately before  him.  There  was  a  broken- 
legged  table  behind  him,  on  which  were  the  im- 
plements of  writing,  and  apparently  that  at  which 
he  had  been  sitting.  The  lines  on  the  paper 
were  singularly.irregular — the  top  of  the  sheet 
was  fair,  but  the  middle  and  bottom  of  the  page 
were  whimsically  discoloured  by  snuff,  which  the 
sage  was  in  the  habit  of  profusely  taking. 

The  appearance  of  Mr.  Paine  was  remarkably 
eccentric.  His  dark  hair,  which  seemed  to  have 
borne  the  marks  of  the  French  style,  stood  in 
all  directions,  with  a  long  slender  cue  reaching 
to  his  hips.  His  face  was  curiously  discoloured 
by  pimples,  so  that  a  clear  spot  was  scarcely  dis« 


39 

cernible,  of  the  size  of  a  wafer.  His  beard  seem- 
ed, at  least,  of  several  weeks'  growth,  and  his 
upper  lip  was  extremely  stained  with  snuff.  The 
linen  which  he  wore  was,  nearly,  the  same  colour 
as  the  floor ;  the  collar  was  open,  and  the  bosom 
of  a  similar  complexion  to  his  upper  lip.  His 
countenance  was  somewhat  gaunt;  his  nose, 
large;  his  brow,  protruding  and  heavy;  and 
his  small  dark  eyes,  threw  a  brilliancy  of  ex- 
pression which  no  description  can  convey.  He 
wore  a  gown  of  red  and  yellow  striped  stuff, 
called  Bengal,  with  pantaloons  of  the  same  kind ; 
and  his  stockingless  feet  were  attired  in  coarse 
list-moccasins,  with  one  of  the  points  so  broken, 
as  to  expose  his  great  toe  to  observation.  In 
this  "  Otium  cum  dignitate,"  sat  this  extraor- 
dinary philosopher,  intent  only  upon  his  studies, 
and  apparently  holding  in  contempt  the  pomp 
and  insignia  of  grandeur.  My  friend  respectfully 
saluted  him,  and  told  him  that  the  object  of  his 
interruption  was  to  purchase  his  work  on 
"  Dreams."  Mr.  Paine  regarded  him  with  a  look 
of  courteous  surprise — apologized  for  inability  to 
rise,  owing  to  his  lameness ;  but  requested  him  to 
be  seated  until  his  boy  should  return,  whom  he 
had  just  dismissed  upon  an  errand.  Independ- 


40 

ently  of  the  arm-chair  which  the  intirm  sage  oc- 
cupied, my  friend  found  another  without  a  back? 
which  was  the  only  other  in  the  room ;  and  here, 
in  midst  of  this  wretchedness  and  disorder,  he 
was  to  encounter  a  man  who  had  thrown  all 
Europe  into  agitation. 

Referring  to  his  book,  the  philosopher  opened 
the  conversation  on  dreams,  and  several  other 
topics  of  physical  philosophy,  and  branching  off 
into  the  merits  of  various  writers,  terminated  in 
desultory  remarks  upon  his  own  productions.  It 
was  plain  that  he  was  anxious  to  enlist  the  other 
in  religious  cannonade,  who  without  suspecting 
that  the  charge  was  so  soon  in  readiness,  was 
thus  questioned  by  Mr.  Paine;  "  Have  you  read 
my  writings,  sir  ?"  "  I  have,  sir,"  replied  his 
visiter,  "  read  all  that  have  been  published,  ex- 
cept the  work  I  have  just  called  for."  "  And 
what  do  you  think  of  them,  sir  ?"  demanded  Mr. 
Paine,  his  little  sparkling  eyes  glancing  dubiously 
upon  his  companion.  This  was  a  question  by 
no  means  anticipated,  but  politeness  required  an 
immediate  reply.  "  Your  political  works,  sir," 
answered  the  visiter,  "  contain  some  of  the  finest 
sentiments  and  representations  of  liberty,  which. 


41 

probably,  arc  to  be  found  in  any  language;  and 
i  am  persuaded  that  your  '  Common  Sense,'  and 
•  Rights  of  Man,'  with  many  of  your  similar  pieces, 
will  be  always  read  with  pleasure  by  every  lover 
of  freedom.  Mr.  Paine  seemed  pleased  with  the 
reply,  and  interrupting  his  visiter,  went  into  a 
short  detail  of  circumstances,  connected  with 
the  period  when  he  published  '  Common  Sense.' 
— "It  was,  sir,"  said  he,  accompanying  the  ex- 
pression with  a  most  expressive  glance  of  his  eye, 
"  at  the  very  time  when  this  country  was  fighting 
for  reconciliation — Yes !"  he  repeated,  "  fighting 
for  reconciliation."  The  visiter  observed,  "About 
that  time,  sir,  a  very  excellent  man,  and  fine 
scholar,  who  was  a  clergyman  of  the  Church  of 
England,  published  a  political  work,  entitled 
'  The  Bible  and  The  Sword,'  with  a  view  to  en- 
courage religious  persons  to  engage  in  the  war 
against  America ;  and  though  some  of  the  Eng- 
lish ministry  were  highly  gratified  with  his  pub- 
lication, yet  the  wisest  and  best  of  that  clergy- 
man's friends  considered  him  injudiciously  med- 
dling with  political  subjects,  with  which  he  was 
so  little  acquainted;  and  I  intended  to  say,  sir," 
continued  the  visiter,  "that  the  most  respect- 
able of  Mr.  Paine's  friends  have  extremely  re- 
No.  VTIT.— 2 


gretted  that  he  ever  ventured  to  write  upon  the 
subject  of  religion.  There  is  nothing  new  to  be 
developed  in  the  extensive  field  of  objection 
against  divine  revelation;  every  difficulty  has 
been  repeatedly  retailed  from  age  to  age,  and 
has  received  powerful  answers  which  have  never 
been  refuted  by  a  reply.  The  most  which  I  have 
ever  heard  from  wise  and  good  men,  on  the  sub- 
ject of  Mr.  Paine's  religious  writings,  were,  that 
his  talents  had  only  given  a  new  and  popular 
combination  to  old  materials."  Mr.  Paine  gave 
a  dissatisfied  smile,  leaned  his  head  upon  his 
hand,  and,  without  deigning  a  reply,  gazed  upon 
the  street. 

After  a  short  silence,  my  friend  assured  Mr. 
Paine  that  he  had  not  the  slightest  intention  of 
offering  him  the  least  offence  or  disrespect ;  that 
independently  of  procuring  his  treatise  on 
"  Dreams,"  he  was  desirous  of  conversing  with 
him  as  a  gentleman  and  a  philosopher.  Mr. 
Paine  then  turned  to  renew  the  conversation. 
The  visiter  then  demanded,  "  Have  you  ever 
read,  sir,  the  answers  which  have  been  addressed 
to  your  ;  Age  of  Reason  ?' "  "  Not  I,"  returned 
the  other,  rather  crustily ;  "  read  them,  indeed ! 


i;; 

No ;  not  I !  Some  of  those  writers  appear  to  be 
deists  themselves,  and  I  understand,  have  been 
answered  by  Jews.  There  is  a  man  in  New-Jer- 
sey who  has  written  two  large  volumes  against 
my  little  work,  to  which  he  has  given  the  title  of 
•  An  Antidote  to  Deism.'  Now  an  antidote  to 
deism,  in  my  opinion,  is  atheism.  The  only 
one  whom  I  have  considered  worthy  of  notice 
among  all  my  adversaries,  is  the  Bishop  of  Lan- 
daff;  and  I  have  prepared  a  reply  to  his  book, 
which  is  in  that  trunk,"  pointing  to  one  that  was 
in  a  corner  of  the  room.  He  then  repeated  part 
of  the  answer  which  he  had  written,  beginning 
with  a  catalogue  of  titles,  belonging  to  the  pre- 
late. He  then  proceeded  to  repeat  the  com- 
mencement of  it ;  "  The  name  of  your  book,  sir. 
4  An  Apology  for  the  Bible,'  is  well  worthy  of  the 
cause  to  which  you  have  directed  your  pen :  now 
an  apology  always  supposes  that  the  person  or 
thing,  for  which  apology  is  offered,  is  more  or 
less  in  error."  The  visiter  remarked,  "  A  play 
upon  words  might  manifest  considerable  inge- 
nuity, but  seldom  amounted  to  an  argument ;  and 
that  a  gentleman  of  Mr.  Paine's  understanding 
must  know  that  nothing  is  gained  by  attacking 
•ambiguous,  but  popular  titles  of  books,  as  the 


44 

term  4  Antidote.'  or  •  Apology,'  which  he  well 
knew,  was  susceptible  of  very  different  mean- 
ings. I  am  of  opinion,"  continued  my  friend, 
growing  bolder  from  familiarity,  "  that  a  revela- 
tion from  God  to  man,  can  be  fairly  sustained 
from  the  very  nature  and  necessity  of  things. 
In  all  large  associations,  there  must  be  a  revela- 
tion or  exhibition  of  law,  to  define  general  and 
social  duties,  without  which,  nations  cannot  be 
governed,  or  society  supported.  If  the  whims, 
passions,  and  prejudices  of  every  man,  are  to  le- 
gislate for  himself,  there  must  be  an  end  to  civil 
and  moral  association.  To  suppose  that  the  Al- 
mighty has  left  the  knowledge  of  our  religious 
duties,  to  the  dictates  of  the  various  shades  of 
human  character,  which  was  never  known  to 
agree  in  any  thing,  would  be  a  contradiction  to 
reason  and  common  sense ;  and  human  govern- 
ment, whose  principles  and  duties  are  prescribed, 
would  be  wiser  and  more  humane  than  the  divine ; 
which  is  a  manifest  contradiction."  Mr.  Paine 
regarded  the  speaker  sternly,  as  if  he  entered 
into  the  argument ;  but,  with  a  sigh,  he  directed 
his  eyes  to  the  heavens,  and  was  for  a  moment 
wrapt  in  contemplation.  After  a  pause,  the 
visiter  continued ;  "  Sir,  there  are  substantial 


45 

reasons  lor  adopting  the  Scriptures  as  4  The 
Word  of  God,'  which,  perhaps,  have  not  occurred 
to  you."  The  philosopher  instantly  turned 
round,  and  good  -humouredly  observed,  "  Yes, 
air ;  but  there  are  so  many  '  Words  of  God  !*  The 
Chinese  have  their  4  Word  of  God !'  The  Ma- 
hometans, their  '  Word  of  God  !'  And  the  Jews, 
and  the  Christians,  have  also  theirs  !"  "  True, 
sir ;"  replied  the  other,  "  but  this  very  objection, 
which  Mr.  Volney  also  mentioned,  is  an  additional 
proof  of  divine  revelation.  The  fact  of  there 
being  numerous  claimants  to  the  same  object,  evi- 
dences that  the  rightful  claim  exists  somewhere. 
We  have  numerous  examples  of  this,  in  our 
courts  of  justice :  and  the  very  existence  of  spu- 
rious coin,  supposes  an  original  which  they  are  in- 
tended to  represent.  So,  among  the  different  pre- 
tensions to  revelation,  it  is  the  business  of  sound 
philosophy,  unbiassed  by  pride  or  prejudice,  so- 
berly to  examine  the  evidences  of  each ;  and  pure 
Christianity  has  nothing  to  fear  from  the  result." 
Mr.  Paine  appeared  considerably  affected,  sighed 
deeply,  and  with  his  head  upon  his  hand,  continu- 
ed to  gaze  upon  the  sky.  At  this  moment,  the 
boy  returned ;  and  at  Mr.  Paine's  direction,  hand- 
ed the  other  his  pamphlet,  "  On  Dreams."  He 


46 

oliered  to  pay  for  .it ;  but  the  philosopher  re- 
fusing, held  it  to  him,  observing,  "  I  beg  you  to 
accept  it,  sir."  My  friend  thanked  him,  and 
prepared  to  withdraw,  remarking,  "  1  fear  that  I 
have  trespassed  too  much  upon  your  time !" 
"  No,  sir,"  the  other  replied ;  "  and  if  you  are  not 
particularly  engaged,  I  would  be  happy  if  you 
would  stay  longer,  for  farther  conversation."  My 
informant  again  thanked  him,  and  told  him  that 
he  had  long  desired  to  see  and  converse  with  him, 
and  would  remain,  with  pleasure,  a  few  moments 
longer. 

While  standing  at  the  table,  he  took  up  a 
newspaper,  which  contained  an  extract  from  an 
English  journal,  proposing  a  substitute  for  a  life- 
boat along  the  most  dangerous  parts  of  the 
coast ;  namely,  that  a  line,  of  sufficient  length, 
should  be  attached  to  a  ball,  and  shot  over  a 
wreck,  by  which  many  lives  might  be  saved, 
who  might  be  providentially  enabled  to  draw 
themselves  a-shore.  The  visiter  remarked  that 
"  the  invention  was  very  simple,  but  would,  no 
doubt,  prove  exceedingly  useful."  "  Yes,  sir," 
said  Mr.  Paine ;  "  but  this  was  discovered  by  a 
Frenchman,  while  I  was  at  Paris. — The  British 


47 

are  fond  of  claiming  every  thing.'1  He*  spoke  of 
the  superiority  of  the  French  to  the  English;  and 
mentioned  many  circumstances  connected  with 
the  government.  He  dwelt  particularly  on  Buo- 
naparte ;  of  his  intended  descent  on  England, 
and  said,  "  I  would  have  accompanied  him  in 
that  business,  for  the  people  of  that  country  are 
tired  of  their  masters  ;  and  Napoleon  is  that  kind 
of  a  man,  sir,"  digging  his  fingers  into  his  snuff- 
box, and  raising  to  his  nose  an  immoderate  pinch, 
escaping,  as  he  spoke,  "  that  he  makes  every  thing 
tell — yes,  sir,  he  makes  every  thing  tell !"  His 
guest  sat  listening,  and  looking  over  the  pamphlet, 
from  which  he  quoted  a  passage  that  changed  the 
conversation  again.  The  philosopher  was  at- 
tentive, as  if  anxious  for  farther  remark.  "  I 
believe,  sir,"  resumed  the  visiter,  "  that  the  pos- 
sibility of  God's  making  a  revelation  of  his  will 
to  mankind,  has  never  been  called  in  question ; 
for  it  would  be  surely  a  most  glaring  absurdity  to 
deny  the  exercise  of  Omnipotent  power.  And 
that  such  a  revelation  from  Heaven  has  been  the 
universal  desire  of  all  ages  and  nations,  there  is 
abundant  evidence,  with  which  a  gentleman  of 
your  reading  must  be  familiar.  Many  of  the  an- 
cient sages  publicly  and  frequently  declared,  that 


48 

•  it  was  bat  reasonable  to  expect,  that  the  great 
Creator  should  interfere,  to  redeem  men's  souls 
from  the  dominion  of  error.'  That  such  a  revela- 
tion has  been  imparted  in  the  Old  and  New  Tes- 
taments, is  susceptible  of  stronger  proof,  than  the 
authenticity  of  any  other  writings  extant.  The  re- 
cords of  national  and  domestic  history  have  never 
detected  a  single  fallacy  in  it — the  discoveries 
of  science  have  served  only  to  throw  light 
upon  its  pages :  the  most  eminent  critics  have 
found  no  inconsistencies,  save  a  few  verbal  er- 
rors of  names  and  dates,  which  are  doubtless 
owing  to  the  carelessness  of  its  transcribers, 
through  the  lapse  of  so  many  centuries;  and 
what  is  more  important,  the  more  it  is  examined, 
the  better  it  is  found  adapted  to  the  wants  and 
weaknesses  of  human  nature.  Its  doctrines  are 
rational — its  precepts  not  only  carry  with  them 
their  own  reward  of  public  confidence  and  es- 
teem, but  open  the  most  cheering  prospects  of 
felicity  beyond  the  grave."  "  The  morals  of 
Christianity,"  replied  the  sage,  "  are  certainly 
worthy  of  respect ;  but  could  they  not  have  been 
discovered  by  the  virtuous,  without  a  revelation 
from  Heaven  ?"  To  this,  it  was  answered,  "  Mr. 
Paine  will  recollect  the  anecdote  of  Columbus 


49 

setting  the  egg  on  end,  which  any  one  could  do 
after  the  manner  was  shown.  So,  the  united  wis- 
dom of  the  world  produced  nothing  equal  to 
Christianity,  until  presented  by  revelation ;  which 
was  so  distinguished  for  simplicity,  and  so  well 
adapted  to  the  wants  and  circumstances  of  society, 
that  it  has  been  a  subject  of  wonder,  why  it  had 
not  been  sooner  discovered.  The  best  system  of 
the  ancient  philosophers  would  now  be  consider- 
ed highly  barbarous,  and  injurious  to  mankind. 
Plato,  Cicero,  and  Epictetus,  not  only  practised, 
but  commended  the  polytheism  and  idolatry  of 
their  forefathers.  Some  maintained  that  all 
crimes  were  equal;  and  others,  the  open  in- 
dulgence of  the  most  unnatural  appetites :  num- 
bers sanctioned  the  perpetration  of  theft  and 
adultery ;  while  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  and 
the  existence  of  an  after  life,  were  openly  de- 
nied and  rejected."  The  philosopher  manifested 
the  same  respectful  attention  as  before,  and 
evinced,  by  the  fervour  of  his  looks,  the  serious 
sentiments  that  were  passing  in  his  mind. 

In  examining  Mr.  Paine's  pamphlet,  my  friend 
was  powerfully  arrested  by  the  passage  "  I  hope 
for  happiness  after  this  life :"  and  after  reading 

No.  VIII.— 3 


60 

it  aloud,  quoted  the  correspondent  lines  from 
Shakspeare : — 

"  I  see  some  sparkles  of  a  better  hope, 
Which  elder  days  may  happily  bring  forth." 

and  again, 

"  Be  that  thou  hop'st  to  be !" 

Rational  hope,  he  continued,  always  supposes 
that  the  good  which  we  earnestly  desire,  ia 
practicable  in  attainment,  implies  the  best  use  of 
the  most  efficient  means  to  reach  the  object,  but 
above  all,  an  adaptation  of  the  mind  to  its  enjoy- 
ment. Every  representation  which  has  been 
given  of  a  future  state  of  happiness,  whether  by 
the  ancient  philosophers,  or  from  what  is  con- 
sidered to  be  revelation,  is  always  connected 
with  the  greatest  purity  and  excellence.  And 
indeed,  it  must  be  so;  for  even  in  this  life,  the 
most  virtuous,  benevolent,  and  devoted  minds,  are 
the  most  happy.  Every  object  of  which  we 
have  any  knowledge,  finds  its  proper  level, — and 
mind  with  kindred  mind  forms  a  natural  associa- 
tion. It  is  no  less  philosophical  than  monitory, 
than,  that 4  without  holiness,  no  man  shall  see  the 
Lord.'  There  must  be  a  congruity  between  the 
mental  character,  and  the  object  or  situation  to 


5) 

be  enjoyed ;  and  hope  sustained  upon  any  other 
ground  does  not  appear  to  be  rational  hope,  so 
much  as  the  unmeaning  expectation  of  the  pre- 
sumptuous enthusiast."  The  author  of  the  "  Age 
of  Reason,"  with  his  head  upon  his  hand,  sat 
anxiously  regarding  the  speaker.  "  I  perceive, 
sir,"  resumed  my  friend,  "  that  this  statement  of 
the  question  forcibly  impresses  your  mind.  I 
have  no  doubt,  sir,  that  you  have  deep  and  so- 
lemn reflections  respecting  your  Maker,  and  the 
relation  which  you  sustain  to  him.  But  permit 
me  to  ask  you,  sir,  do  you  ever  pray  ?"  This 
was  a  question  which  he  little  expected,  and  it 
seemed  to  produce  considerable  excitement; 
but  with  a  *  pleasant  smile,  he  immediately 
replied,  "  I  have  views  of  prayer,  sir,  different 
from  most  of  men.  Prayer  appears,  to  me,  to 
be  directing  the  Creator  upon  what  business  he 
should  be  engaged,  what  wants  to  supply,  and 
what  deficiencies  to  fill  up ;  or,  in  other  words, 
requesting  the  Almighty  to  alter  his  purposes. 
Now  my  views  of  God  are,  that  he  well  knows 
what  he  is  about,  without  any  interference  or 
dictation  from  me."  All  this  was  said  rather 
in  the  manner  of  stating  an  objection,  than  ex* 
pressing  a  conviction.  After  a  momentary  pauscp 


my  friend  observed,  "  Prayer  appears,  to  me,  a 
duty,  sir,  dependent  on  no  religious  system  what- 
ever. It  is  the  voice  of  human  nature  in  distress, 
or  want,  and  is  as  impossible  to  be  restrained 
as  our  sensibilities.  The  pages  of  history 
are  without  an  example  of  a  single  nation  be- 
lieving in  a  Supreme  Ruler,  which  was  not  fa- 
miliar with  sacrifices  and  prayers.  As  to  altering 
the  Divine  purposes, — Mr.  Paine  well  knows,  that 
the  beam  of  a  balance  is  as  much  changed  by 
taking  out  of  one  scale,  as  by  putting  into  the 
other.  The  substitute  for  the  life  boat,  of  which 
we  have  just  read,  where  a  line  is  propelled  over  a 
wreck,  that  the  sufferers  may  save  their  lives,— 
the  question  is,  whether  the  wretched  individuals, 
by  seizing  the  rope,  draw  themselves  to  the  shore, 
or  the  shore  to  themselves  ?  Because  safety  is 
as  much  the  consequence  of  the  one,  as  if  they 
were  able  to  effect  the  other."  The  attentive 
sage  gave  a  most  significant  look  of  approbation. 
"  Thus,  prayer,  sir,*'  resumed  my  friend, "  is  ad- 
mirably adapted  by  the  Author  of  our  existence, 
to  the  exigency  of  our  situation;  and  the  change 
to  be  produced  by  it  is  upon  ourselves,  and  not 
upon  the  Almighty.  Experience  has  always 
tested  that  prayer  persevered  in  reclaims  the 


33 

mind  from  the  dissipations  of  life,  impresses  the 
heart  with  a  sense  of  its  dependence — controls 
our  passions,  and  corrects  our  errors — inclines  to 
the  cultivation  of  every  virtuous  disposition  and 
duty, — bends  us  in  submission  to  the  dispensa- 
tions of  Providence,  disclosing  to  the  view  a 
blissful  immortality ;  and,  in  short,  like  the  cord 
of  which  we  were  speaking,  draws  the  whole 
man  to  a  closer  union  with  his  Maker,  in  princi- 
ples, dispositions,  and  conduct."  Mr.  Paine  ap- 
peared considerably  affected  by  these  remarks, 
frequently  sighed,  and  looked  upwards  for  some 
moments.  "  The  mercy  of  God  is  great,  sir," 
observed  Mr.  Paine,  "  and  his  wisdom,  that  well 
knows  what  we  are,  is  capable  of  applying  it." 
"  True,"  returned  the  other ;  "  but  the  divine  at- 
tributes are  like  so  many  rays  of  light,  of  equal 
lustre,  shooting  from  the  same  centre,  where 
one  is  not  capable  of  dimming,  or  superseding 
the  others."  "  Repentance  for  our  errors,"  the 
philosopher  said,  "  is  sufficient — nothing  more 
can  be  done ;  and  the  doctrine  of  atonement  is 
a  contradiction."  My  friend  remarked,  "  Now, 
sir,  let  us  fairly  consider  this  subject !"  "  You 
are  a  clergyman?"  said  Mr.  Paine.  "I  am,  sir," 
replied  my  friend ;  "  but  before  my  Maker,  I  am 


54 

an  honest  man.  I  have  turned  my  back  on  many 
flattering  prospects,  for  the  profession  which  I 
have  adopted.  My  mind  is  laboriously  in  search 
of  truth.  I  have  read  most  of  the  deistical 
writers,  and  I  have  many  of  their  works  on  my 
shelves :  and  my  firm  conviction  is,  that  Chris- 
tianity has  nothing  to  suffer,  but  from  superficial 
and  partial  investigation.  If  truth,  that  jewel 
truth,  is  to  be  found  with  you,  sir,  I  will  become 
a  willing  disciple,  and  zealously  join  you.  Your 
views  of  repentance,  however,  are  at  variance 
with  the  universal  consent  of  mankind;  for  all 
ages  and  nations  have  ever  united  with  their  con- 
trition the  most  expensive  and  sanguinary  sacri- 
fices, to  propitiate  the  gods :  and  no  people  were 
ever  heard  of,  that  confessed  the  sufficiency  of 
repentance,  without  atonement;  the  one  being 
an  acknowledgment  of  wrong,  that  is,  justice 
violated ;  the  other,  an  attempt  at  reparation,  or 
the  acquirement  of  mercy.  Atonement  is  purely 
an  English  word,  and  is  remarkably  expressive, — 
being  more  properly  at-one-ment,  or  the  agree- 
ment of  principles  previously  discordant."  Mr. 
Paine  smiled  his  assent  at  this  etymology. 
"  When  we  speak,  sir,"  the  other  continued,  "  of 
the  character  of  man  as  wise,  just,  good,  and  the 


55 

like,  they  are  mere  appendages  of  his  nature, 
which  may,  or  may  not,  exist,  without  affecting 
the  individual.  But  every  attribute  of  the  Di- 
vinity is  illustrative  of  his  existence;  such  as 
wisdom,  justice,  and  mercy  itself,  &c.,  perfectly 
harmonizing  and  uniting  with  each  other.  Now 
you  are  aware,  sir,  that  it  is  not  in  the  nature  of 
pure  justice  to  remit,  in  the  slightest  degree, 
the  crimes  of  the  offender,  otherwise  it  were  not 
justice."  "  What !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Paine,  "  do 
you  mean  to  say,  sir,  that  the  mercy  of  God  can- 
not pardon  the  offences  of  mankind  ?"  "  Sir," 
returned  the  visiter,  "  we  must  reason  as  philoso- 
phers, and  not  as  the  creatures  of  system  or  pre- 
judice. I  meant  to  say,  that  the  existence  of 
perfect  justice  and  mercy,  with  regard  to  a 
culprit,  is  a  philosophical  contradiction  :  for,  like 
the  pole  of  a  balance,  in  proportion  as  mercy  is 
exalted,  justice  must  relax ;  for  every  shade  of 
departure  from  strict  justice,  must  be  so  far  a 
degree  of  injustice ;  and  can  we  consider  the 
Deity  as  partially  unjust  ?  It  is  well  observed, 
that  in  l  human  administration,  the  pardoning 
power,  or  the  authority  to  commute  or  absolve 
from  punishment,  must  be  lodged  somewhere ; 
but  this  arises  from  the  imperfect  exercise  of  mi- 


56 

< 

man  justice;  for,  says  Godwin,  4  If  justice  haa 
been  done  to  condemn,  what  then  is  clemency 
but  the  mistaken  tenderness  of  him  who  thinks 
to  do  better  than  justice,  which  is  a  contradic- 
tion ?'  But  though  these  things  are  admitted  in 
earthly  governments,  the  weakness  and  imper- 
fection of  human  systems  cannot  possibly  ap- 
ply to  the  Creator.  How,  then,  Mr.  Paine,  can 
this  at-one-ment  be  effected?"  A  pause  en- 
sued, but  no  reply;  the  philosopher  seemingly 
lost  in  a  contemplative  gaze.  "  All  nations,"  my 
friend  resumed,  "have  answered  this  by  their 
sanguinary  sacrifices,  and  penitential  rites :  the 
doctrine  of  substitution  has  every  where  prevail- 
ed from  the  earliest  times,  and  numerous  have 
been  the  examples  of  self-devotion  for  the  public 
benefit.  The  case  of  the  siege  of  Calais,  is  fa- 
miliar to  every  one ;  and  more  particularly  the 
example  of  the  famous  Zaleucus,  prince  of  the 
Locrians ;  in  whom  the  right,  will,  and  power  to 
save  his  son,  and  sustain  the  purity  of  the  laws 
united,  but  yet  he  hesitated  not  to  make  the  offer- 
ing, when  the  public  interests  were  at  stake.  So, 
the  ordinary  business  of  suretyship,  in  which 
one  becomes  voluntarily  bound  for  the  demands 
of  another,  is  a  case  where  no  rights  of  public 


or  private  justice  are  violated ;  and  tins,  1  believe, 
is  the  simple  amount  of  what  is  presented  in  the 
Christian  scriptures.  The  sum  of  the  argument 
is  briefly  this — either  man  is  an  offender,  or  he  is 
not.  If  he  be  not,  then  error  does  not  exist,  and 
there  is  an  end  at  once,  to  all  law  and  justice. 
But  if  he  be,  he  cannot  be  restored,  unless  suit- 
able reparation  be  made  to  the  violated  attribute ; 
such  an  one,  in  short,  as  Christianity  proposes  as 
a  remedy  to  a  guilty  world.  Depend  upon  it, 
sir,  that  reflection,  in  a  mind  unbiassed  by  sys- 
tem, or  passion,  will  direct  you  to  behold  the 
consistency  and  excellence  of  the  Christian  re- 
velation." 

During  the  conversation,  several  persons  came 
into  the  room,  with  a  loud  "  How  do  you  do,  Mr. 
Paine  ?"  to  whom  he  would  either  give  a  short 
answer,  or  an  unwelcome  glance  of  his  eye ;  and 
after  they  had  alternately  gazed  on  him  and  my 
friend,  they  silently,  but  reluctantly,  withdrew. 
Some  of  these  persons  were  respectably  dressed; 
but  others  were  of  the  lowest  dregs  of  society, 
and  among  them,  several  who  had  been  inmates 
of  the  penitentiary.  After  they  had  gone,  the 
visiter  demanded  of  the  philosopher,  whether 

\o.  vni.— 4 


he  knew  those  men  ?    "  Know  them  f"  he  re~ 
plied,  rather  crustily,  "  No ;  1  dont  know  one  in 
fifty  of  those  who  make  these  calls !"    "  No,*' 
returned  my  friend ;  "  I  presume  that  you  do  not 
know  them,  otherwise  you  would  not  permit  it. 
Some  of  them,  sir,  are  among  the  convicts  of  our 
city,  and  I  am  persuaded  that  they  do  not  visit 
you  from  any  respect,  but  simply  to  attach  some 
consequence  to  themselves,  by  retailing  the  re- 
marks which  may  escape  you.    Ah !  there  was  a 
time,  sir,  when  your  society  was  sought  for  by 
the  first  and  best  of  the  land ;  but,  unfortunately, 
your  religious  publications  have  inflicted  much 
injury  upon  yourself  as  well   as  others.     And 
many  such  men  as  have  just  visited  you,  doubt- 
less, have  been  emboldened  in  dissolute  habits, 
by  the  influence  of  those  writings ;  for,  sir,  when 
the  restraints  of  religion  are  dissolved,  what  is 
to  be  expected  from  the  passions  ?" 

Mr.  Paine  seemed  wounded  by  these  last  re- 
marks, and  made  some  sarcastic  observations 
upon  the  clergy ;  to  which  my  friend  observed, 
"  Many  of  the  clergy,  it  is  to  be  regretted,  have 
deserved  your  reprehension ;  but  are  there  not 
aumerous  examples,  where  they  are  blessings  as 


well  as  ornaments  to  the  community?  To  asperse 
the  whole  profession,  because  many  have  dis- 
honoured it,  is  as  unreasonable  as  to  proscribe 
the  mercantile  department,  because  numbers  have 
proved  knaves,  and  unworthy  of  the  public  con- 
fidence. But  bad  as  some  of  the  sacred  profes- 
sion may  have  been,  they  would,  probably,  have 
been  much  worse,  without  the  restraints  of  reli- 
gion." My  friend  now  rose  to  depart,  and  said, 
in  a  very  friendly  manner,  "  Sir,  I  have  found  you 
to  be  a  very  different  person  from  what  you  have 
been  represented.  I  was  informed  that  you 
would  of  der  me  from  your  room,  and  treat  any 
one  with  rudeness  who  should  accost  you  on 
serious  subjects.  You  have  received  me  with 
kindness ;  and  I  thank  you  for  your  attention."  Mr. 
Paine  inclined  forward  with  a  smile  of  pleasure. 
44  But  before  we  part,"  observed  my  friend, "  allow 
me  to  suggest  to  you  a  few  topics  for  reflection. 
Was  it  ever  read,  or  heard  of,  sir,  that  any  one 
was  reclaimed  from  vicious  principles  or  habits, 
by  the  instructions  of  deism  ?  And,  on  the  other 
hand,  are  there  not  numerous  examples,  of  the 
most  abandoned  having  become  virtuous,  through 
the  influence  of  Christianity  ?  Or  reverse  this, 
and  inquire,  how  many  good  men.  in  conse- 


60 

<juence  of  adopting  deistical  sentiments,  have 
grown  corrupt,  and  dangerous  members  of  so- 
ciety !  Surely,  Mr.  Paine,  if  the  value  of  prin- 
ciple is  to  be  tested  by  its  results,  that  cannot  be 
right,  productive  of  such  injury;  and  that,  on 
the  contrary,  must  be  true  which  tends  to  en- 
lighten and  purify,  as  well  as  advance  the  best 
interests  of  human  nature.  I  would  beg  leave  to 
suggest  another  reflection.  The  instances  are 
numerous,  of  those  who,  having  boastingly  pro- 
fessed deism,  have  pronounced  upon  their  death 
beds  the  most  bitter  reproaches,  and  condemna- 
tion upon  its  principles.  They  have  not  only 
warned  others  against  them,  but  they  have  used 
their  best  efforts  to  enjoy  the  hopes  of  the  gos- 
pel, and  have  even  partaken  of  the  Christian  sa- 
crament, in  token  of  their  sincerity.  But  who, 
sir,  has  ever  known  of  any  Christian,  in  a  similar 
situation,  repenting  and  despairing  of  the  mercy 
of  God,  for  having  embraced  the  sentiments  of 
Christianity  ?  Has  not  the  system  which  he  has 
espoused,  grown  more  precious  in  his  estimation, 
and  has  not  his  last  testimony  borne  witness  to 
the  triumph  and  consolation  which  it  inspires  ? 
Mr.  Paine !  Lord  Herbert  pronounces 4  the  Chris- 
tian religion  to  be  the  best  religion.'  Mr.  Tin- 


til 

dal  declares  that,  *  Christianity,  stripped  of  the 
additions  which  policy  and  superstition  have 
made  to  it,  is  a  most  holy  religion !'  And  to 
mention  but  one  or  two  others,  Lord  Bolingbroke 
declares,  'No  religion  ever  appeared  in  the 
world,  whose  natural  tendency  is  so  much  di- 
rected to  promote  the  peace  and  happiness  of 
mankind.'  And  Rousseau  also  observes, '  The 
majesty  of  the  scriptures  strikes  me  with  ad- 
miration, and  the  purity  of  the  gospel  hath  its 
influence  on  my  heart.'  I  cannot  but  fervently 
wish,  that  he  who  has  contributed  so  much  to 
enlighten  the  world  on  the  subject  of  civil  liberty, 
may  be  led  to  add  the  same  testimony  by  his 
sentiments  and  experience."  My  friend  respect- 
fully bade  the  philosopher  adieu,  who  instantly 
calling  him  back,  and  stretching  out  his  hand, 
said,  "  Sir, — sir,  and  will  you  not  shake  hands 
with  me  ?"  "  Most  cordially,"  returned  the 
visiter ;  "  and  I  leave  you  with  my  most  fervent 
wishes  for  your  happiness."  "  Come  and  visit 
me  again,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Paine ;  "  for  I  will  be 
very  glad  to  see  you,  and  I  wish  you  to  come  soon." 

Thus  terminated  this  desultory  conversation, 
which  lasted  about  two  hours,  and  which,  from 


62 

the  interest  indulged,  fled  away  like  moments. 
It  was  plain,  that  Mr.  Paine  was  not  a  skeptic, 
from  impartial  and  laborious  examination;  but 
from  having,  like  many  others,  mingled  with 
the  unprincipled  and  depraved,  whose  lives  were 
in  perpetual  enmity  with  the  convictions  of  re- 
ligion. Corrupt  associates  and  habits  are  the 
fatal  clouds  which  hide  from  the  soul  the  light 
of  the  moral  heavens ;  and  until  these  be  dis- 
persed, it  must  walk  for  ever  in  darkness.  It  can 
be  said  alone  of  the  gospel,  that  the  more  it  is 
understood,  the  better  it  is  appreciated:  and 
there  is  little  doubt,  that  had  the  author  of  "  The 
Rights  of  Man,"  availed  himself  of  the  society 
of  the  virtuous  and  intelligent,  and  honestly  di- 
rected his  researches  to  the  topics  of  revelation, 
he  would  have  ranked  among  its  brightest  and 
most  powerful  defenders. 

Mr.  Paine,  shortly  after,  removed  his  lodgings 
to  a  distant  part  of  the  city ;  and  my  friend  in- 
formed me  that  he  never  saw  him  more ;  but  the 
remembrance  of  the  conversation  has  excited 
his  regret  that  he  never  enjoyed  a  similar  privi- 
lege ;  as  he  was  persuaded  that  the  philosopher's 
mind  was  open  to  conviction — that  the  visit  had 


not  proved  unprofitable ;  and  that  the  strong 
tation  which  he  received  arose  from  the  transient 
ascendency  of  conscience,  over  the  slumbers  of 
self-delusion.  Thus,  what  benefits  might  often 
accrue  from  the  serious  conversation  of  the  in- 
telligent with  the  adversaries  of  religion;  who, 
approached  with  kindness,  rather  than  severity, 
might -be  often  led  to  reflect  upon  the  conse- 
quences of  their  skepticism.  That  venomous 
hostility,  which  sincere'y,  but  imprudently  vents 
forth  anathemas,  has  done  more  in  the  promotion 
of  infidelity  than  the  most  flagrant  assaults  of  its 
writers,  who  are  taught  to  suppose  that  bitter- 
ness is  the  strongest  defence  of  scripture,  whose 
only  mode  of  triumph  is  to  trample  upon  human 
reason.  If  ever  reclaimed  to  duty,  they  must 
be  drawn  by  the  counsel  and  example  of  Chris- 
tians. When  all  other  means  have  failed,  af- 
fectionate persuasion  will  melt  down  the  heart, 
and  like  the  magnetic  influence,  convert  it  into 
its  own  nature.  Despised  and  neglected,  the  re- 
jectors of  revelation  too  often,  on  that  account, 
are  hardened  in  unbelief.  Their  principles  have 
been  corrupted : — their  finest  sensibilities,  blunt- 
ed ; — and  their  chimerical  anticipations  of  happi- 
ness, unrealized ;  but  possibly,  by  pious  counsel, 


64 

a  chord  of  sympathy  may  be  awakened,  that  had 
long  slept  in  silence,  which  may  stir  them  up  to 
the  perception  of  all  their  neglected  duties;  and 
like  a  warning  voice  from  the  grave,  lead  them 
to  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  The  accession  of  a 
single  wanderer  to  the  ranks  of  Christianity,  will 
operate  upon  his  companions  more  powerfully 
than  language.  He  feels  that  he  has  awakened 
to  a  new  world  of  moral  light  and  beauty,  and 
escaped  the  darkness  and  dangers  in  which  rea- 
son once  enveloped  him.  He  frequents  his 
former  haunts — but  they  are  no  longer  lovely — 
he  sees  poisonous  serpents  coiling  about  their 
path.  He  walks  among  his  associates — but 
he  seems  among  the  dead;  and  if  he  ever  speaks, 
it  is  only  with  tears  and  persuasions.  He  would 
give  worlds  to  allure  them  to  the  narrow  path  he 
has  chosen;  but  expostulations,  as  with  him, 
have  too  often  proved  in  vain.  Soon  he  shares, 
with  angels,  the  felicity  and  triumphs  of  heaven, 
from  which,  his  voice,  could  it  be  heard,  would 
exclaim  to  every  deluded  follower  in  error,  "If 
thou  hadst  known,  even  thou,  at  least,  in  this  thy 
day,  the  things  which  belong  unto  thy  peace! 
but  now  they  are  hid  from  thine  eyes," 


THE    MANUSCRIPT. 


"  Like  April  morning  clouds  that  pass, 
With  varying  shadow  o'er  the  grass, 
And  imitate  on  field  and  furrow, 
Life's  cheqner'd  scene  of  joy  and  sorrow ; 
Thus  various  my  romantic  theme 
Flits,  winds,  and  sinks,  a  morning  droam." 


VOL.  II. 


NEW-YORK: 

G.  &  C,  CARVILL,  AND  ELAM  BLISS. 

J.  AND  3.  HARPER,   PRINTERS. 


'JTHE  PROVIDENTIAL,  RELEASE. 


Beneath 

The  shelter  of  these  wings  thou  shalt  be  sate. 
As  was  the  eagle's  nestling  once  within 
Its  mother's. 

BYRON. 


YES; — there  must  be  a  divine  Guardian  thai 
superintends  our  concerns,  that  protects  us  from 
danger,  ministers  to  us  in  affliction,  and  conducts 
us,  on  the  wings  of  hope,  to  that  haven  of  peace 
where  our  restless  spirits  would  repose,  j^y 
whom  but  this  unseen  agent  were  we  preserved 
from  the  diseases  and  perils  which  threatened 
to  nip  the  buds  of  infancy : — from  the  thoughtless- 
ness, and  ruinous  labyrinths  which  perplexed  the 
giddy  footsteps  of  childhood — from  the  gilded 
temptations — the  hollow  promises — the  false 
smiles,  and  withering  attacks  of  the  world  ?  Are 
we  more  certain  that  the  finger;  of  chance  has 
conducted  us  on  our  way  ?  that  our  lives  com- 
menced and  have  continued  without  meaning,  and 
No.  IX.— i 


tki 

that  the  grave  is  the  termination  of  our  present 
existence?  But  does  not  conscience  give  the 
lie  to  a  doctrine  so  absurd?  Is  there  not  a 
regularity  in  the  train  of  moral  events  which 
indicates  design ;  and  is  there  not  an  immortality 
that  cries  within  us  ?  If  we  imagine  ourselves 
indebted  to  our  own  foresight  or  manage- 
ment, and  to  the  feeble  faculties  and  strength 
which  belong  to  frail  mortality,  have  there  not 
been  seasons  when  our  wisest  plans  were  baffled, 
and  our  best-directed  exertions,  palsied  and  mock- 
ed with  derision?  Have  not  innumerable  cir- 
cumstances transpired,  independent  of  our  agency 
or  controul,  thwarting  our  fondest  wishes  and  an- 
ticipations, and  leading  us  by  new  and  unexpected 
results  to  the  dearest  objects  of  our  pursuit  ?  It  is 
not  in  the  hasty  and  feverish  excitement  of  youth 
that  we  realize  our  insufficiency :  reflection  is  too 
much  bewildered  and  led  astray  by  passion,  and 
the  mind  too  warmly  clings  to  the  enjoyment  of 
the  world,  to  enable  us  to  pause  and  inquire  how 
we  are  led  along.  It  is  when  the  heart  has  been 
schooled  to  the  knowledge  of  its  own  weakness, 
and  been  stung  by  the  disappointments  and  afflic- 
tions incident  to  the  present  state,  that  it  begins 
to  feel  distrustful  of  its  own  powers  and  re- 


67 

sources.  It  is  at  the  evening  of  a  well-spent 
life,  when  the  fancy  has  been  sobered  down 
by  experience  and  reflection — when  the  world  no 
longer  seduces  by  its  snares,  or  intoxicates  by  its 
pleasures,  that  we  look  back  upon  the  scenes  we 
have  passed,  and  perceive  how  little  is  to  be 
ascribed  to  ourselves,  and  how  much  to  an  over- 
ruling Power  that  has  led  us  along  the  highway 
of  existence. 

They  who  derive  no  consolation  in  the  belief 
of  an  overruling  Providence  deprive  themselves 
of  the  sweetest  enjoyments,  and  the  dearest  hopes 
which  can  possibly  sustain  humanity.  What  sa- 
tisfaction is  it,  that  we  are  wandering  guideless 
through  the  world,  without  a  superior  Being  to 
correct  the  errors,  and  remedy  the  weaknesses 
of  human  nature,  and  guard  us  from  the  innu- 
merable attacks  to  which  we  are  continually  ex- 
posed? Who  would  not  rather  believe  such  a 
doctrine,  though  the  creature  of  the  imagination, 
than  forfeit  the  consolation  which  it  inspires  ?  It 
fills  us  with  ideas  of  the  Divine  government, 
which  ought  to  be  true  to  comport  with  the  cha- 
racter of  that  God  whose  attributes  are  allowed 
to  be  perfect.  He  cannot  be  supremely  benefi- 


cent  if  he  can  overlook  even  the  most  trivial  or 
human  concerns,  and  abandon  his  poor,  depend- 
ent creatures  to  their  own  unassisted  powers. 
But  what  is  there  in  the  sentiment  unworthy  of 
bur  belief?  Is  it  impossible,  that  the  Being  who 
made,  should  produce  certain  impressions  upon 
mind  and  matter,  and  by  means,  now  unfathom- 
able, guide  and  sustain  the  spirits  which  he  has 
sent  into  the  world  ?  It  would  be  the  foulest  im- 
putation upon  the  Divine  character,  that  he  has 
ceased  to  govern  and  protect  his  moral  creation, 
and  that  he  has  left  it  exposed  to  the  evils  which 
casualty  or  ignorance  may  inflict.  If  it  be  no  de- 
rogation to  the  dignity  of  Jehovah,  to  create  a  fee- 
ble mite  with  the  numerous  organs  adapted  to  its 
nature,  should  its  preservation  be  considered  less 
worthy  of  his  attention  ?  If  the  creation  of  man, 
with  faculties  not  dissimilar  to  an  angel,  be  ho- 
nourable to  the  Creator,  is  it  less  befitting  his 
wisdom  to  guide  him  through  the  shoals  and 
quicksands  of  mortality,  until  he  reach  his  final 
resting-place  beyond  "  the  valley  of  the  shadow 
of  death  ?" 

It  is  objected,  that  we  perceive  no  external  con- 
nexidn  between  the  spiritual  and  visible  world : 


that  we  see  no  angelic  messengers  hovering  near 
us :  that  we  hear  no  divine  footsteps  approaching 
to  our  aid.  It  is  very  true ;  for  how  can  flesh 
and  blood  comprehend,  with  material  senses,  the 
silent  and  inexplicable  communion  of  disembo- 
died spirits  ?  But  do  we  not  feel  their  effects  t 
The  air  breathes  upon  the  parched  frame,  and 
communicates,  though  unseen,  the  most  delight- 
ful sensations :  the  magnet  points  to  its  beloved 
North,  but  the  agent  that  moves  it  is  invisible : 
and  is  not  a  moral  effect,  issuing  from  a  com- 
bination of  causes,  over  which  man  has  no  con- 
troul,  as  certain  an  argument  of  a  superintend- 
ing power,  as  if  that  power  were  visible  to  the 
senses  ?  If  we  judge,  in  the  one  case,  by  the  force 
of  the  result,  then  surely  it  ought  to  operate  as 
irresistibly  with  the  other.  I  have  always  thought 
that  there  is  a  dark  veil  drawn  over  the  natural 
senses,  which  clouds  and  renders  indistinct 
our  perceptions  of  an  after  life;  and  it  may 
be,  by  the  partial  removal  of  this,  that  the  soul 
occasionally  enjoys  bright  conceptions  of  eter- 
nity. Some  faculties  too  may  be  thus  buried  in 
darkness,  for  a  season,  until  our  connexion  with 
this  world  dissolves ;  for  here  we  might  not  un- 
derstand the  sublimity  of  spiritual  communion- 


tions,  nor  might  it  be  profitable  to  investigate 
topics  that  concern  merely  a  future  state. 

But  although  continually  indebted  to  the  pro- 
tecting Providence  of  Heaven,  how  prone  are  we 
to  dwell  upon  the  evils  of  human  life,  which  oc- 
casionally darken  it  like  summer  clouds,  which 
purify  the  air  and  enrich  the  soil  which  they  over- 
shadow :  but  of  the  numerous  preservations  and 
blessings  we  have  experienced,  how  few  are 
stamped  upon  the  memory  after  the  heart  is 
crowned  with  satiety ;  after  the  pulse  of  anticipa- 
tion has  ceased  to  beat,  and  the  first  vows  of  gra- 
titude have  been  registered  on  high !  Is  it  be- 
cause the  mind  is  more  pleased  with  the  contem- 
plation of  misery,  than  of  the  mercies  which 
gladden  the  wilderness  of  life?  or  is  it  not  rather 
owing  to  the  prodigality  of  the  Divine  bounty, — 
to  our  being  satiated  with  the  fulness  of  our  en- 
joyments, and  to  the  comparative  infrequency  of 
adverse  circumstances,  which  seem,  on  that  ac- 
count, like  so  many  mountain  summits  known 
only  by  their  desolation,  while  all  around,  gay  with 
Nature's  richest  livery,  passes  unheeded  from  the 
view  ?  But  place  the  individual  in  a  sphere  where 
his  privileges  are  contracted,  his  anticipations 


71 

thwarted,  and  where  tears  are  his  only  solace, 
it  is  then  that  the  memory  of  happier  days  rushes 
upon  the  heart,  like  the  strains  of  midnight  mu- 
sic :  the  sufferer  recollects  the  bounties  of  that 
Providence  which  had  long  been  buried  in  for- 
getfulness: — he  looks  forward  to  happier  days, 
and  feeling  humbly  dependent  upon  the  guidance 
of  his  Maker,  longs  to  breathe  forth  his  gratitude 
in  pious  and  acceptable  services. 

A  belief  in  an  overruling  Providence  not  only 
results  from  the  testimony  of  scripture,  but  the 
deductions  of  our  own  experience.  It  is  not 
when  the  cup  of  our  prosperity  is  filled  to  the 
brim,  that  we  are  enabled  to  realize  the  consola- 
tions of  the  doctrine.  When  the  tide  of  our 
worldly  affairs  flows  on  calmly  and  unimpeded — 
when  our  countenances  are  flushed  with  the 
bloom  of  health,  and  when  the  voice  of  friend- 
ship is  heard  responding  to  our  own ;  when  the 
garden  of  our  domestic  comforts  is  unassailed 
by  storms,  and  we  behold  no  choice  tree  or  plant 
levelled  unexpectedly  to  the  ground,  we  forget 
the  Divine  hand  that  conducts  us  on  our  journey, 
and  mistakenly  ascribe  to  ourselves  all  the  merits 
of  our  store.  But  let  the  tempest  of  adversitv 


n 

and  affliction  arise ;  let  the  winds  of  disease  and 
dissolution  beat  upon  our  little  bark,  and  wrest 
from  us  the  objects  on  which  we  had  fastened 
our  hearts,  then  we  realize  our  folly,  we  awaken  to 
a  sense  of  our  dependence  upon  Jehovah,  and  we 
are  softened  into  compliance  with  our  darkest 
dispensations. 

1   remember  an   adventure  which  occurred, 
during  the  continental  war,  to  an  American  sol- 
dier at  Saratoga,  which,  trivial  as  it  may  seem, 
illustrates  in  some  degree  the  sentiments  which 
have  been  advanced.     To  imagine  that  to  be 
trifling  which  does  not  comport  with  our  ideas  of 
importance,  is  irrational  in  the  extreme ;  as  events 
we  deemed  of  little  moment,  repeatedly  eventuate 
in  our  highest  interests ;  while  frequently  those 
that  appeared  momentous  in  their  results,  are 
the  sources  only  of  vexation  and  disappointment. 
The  soldier,  to  whom  I  refer,  was  attached  to  the 
army  of  the  brave  General  Gates ;  and  like  many 
others,  had  been  compelled  to  leave  his  family 
alone,  in  a  log  cabin  in  the  woods,  exposed  to 
the  ravages  of  those  foraging  parties  that  were 
scouring  the   country  every  moment,  and  only 
dependent  upon  a  slender  supply  of  provisions. 


73 

which,  previous  to  his  departure,  had  been  pro- 
cured. It  was  dead  midnight  when  the  father 
was  aroused  from  his  bed,  by  the  tapping  of  a 
drum  from  without,  to  prepare  to  join  his  coun- 
trymen in  defending  his  native  land.  All  the  feel- 
ings of  a  father  were  awakened  within  him,  when 
he  remembered  that  he  had  to  leave  behind  him 
a  tender  wife,  dear  to  him  as  life,  and  four  little 
children,  who  were  locked  asleep  in  each  others 
arms.  There  was  no  alternative  but  to  obey  the 
call  of  his  country ;  so,  without  suffering  himself 
to  be  governed  by  the  impulse  of  his  feelings,  and 
having  made  those  slight  preparations  which  the 
pressure  of  the  occasion  allowed,  he  took  an 
affectionate  farewell  of  his  wife,  and  joined  the 
anxious  party,  who  were  waiting  to  escort  him  to 
the  scene  of  action.  How  wisely  is  it  ordered, 
that  weak  and  helpless  woman  should  be  en- 
dowed with  powers  of  mind  frequently  superior 
to  those  of  the  other  sex ;  intended,  no  doubt,  to 
bear  up  hardier  manhood  in  hours  of  peril  and 
despondency,  when  nothing  but  the  sunshine  of 
her  fortitude  can  alleviate  and  soothe  the  dangers 
and  trials  which  beset  him.  Thus  the  vine, 
which  clasps  the  towering  oak,  and  fastens  its 
tendrils  securely  upon  some  neighbouring  rock. 
No.  IX.— 2 


74 

defends  the  former  from  the  violence  of  the  tem- 
pest; or  should  the  tree  fall  a  victim  to  the  ground, 
the  vine  leaves  not  its  beloved  partner  to  bear 
the  ruin  alone,  but  yields  up  its  own  branches 
and  leaves,  seems  to  mourn  over  the  other  in 
refusing  to  relax  its  hold,  and  silently  withers 
away,  as  if  unable  to  remedy  its  loss.  Thus  a  good 
wife  is  often  the  instrument  of  sustaining  the  hus- 
band in  his  adverse  hours ;  and  though  the  weaker 
vessel,  often  bears  him  up  in  storms  for  which  he 
is  disqualified  alone,  and  is  willing  to  fall  a  sacri- 
fice to  the  same  calamity  which  weighs  down 
her  consort's  heart.  Thus  it  was  with  our 
poor  soldier ;  he  had  been  supported  under 
the  shock  by  the  fortitude  of  his  wife :  he  felt 
that  he  had  left  all  his  world  at  home ;  but  he 
hoped  that  the  same  Providence  which  removed. 
would  speedily  restore  him  to  his  family. 

They  arrived  at  the  American  camp  early  on 
the  following  day.  The  army  was  busily  engaged 
in  preparation  for  battle,  since  it  was  confidently 
believed  that  Burgoyne's  army  would  make  a 
sudden  attack,  as  the  proximity  of  the  British 
troops,  and  the  skirmishes  which  had  taken  place 
several  days  previous,  kept  the  Americans  in 


75 

constant  excitement.  The  fears  of  a  battle  so 
natural  to  a  novice,  and  even  sometimes  to  those 
familiar  with  its  bloodshed,  are  always  known  to 
evaporate  during  the  agitations  of  the  contest; 
so  that  those  who  trembled  a  few  moments  be- 
fore, at  the  apprehension  of  danger,  become 
armed  with  extraordinary  prowess.  There  is 
also  a  hectic  excitement  kept  up  by  the  notes  of 
martial  music,  the  roaring  of  the  cannon,  and  the 
rushing  of  the  multitude,  which  prevents  the 
mind  from  meditating  on  its  situation,  and  hurries 
it  along  with  the  current  of  passing  events,  so  that 
it  has  no  leisure  to  dwell  upon  itself,  but  seeks 
rather  to  take  a  part  in  the  giddy,  tumultuous 
scene.  This  our  hero  felt  when  he  saw  the  Eng- 
lish army  pouring  upon  his  own  regiment,  in  the 
morning,  and  perceived  that  he  was  contending 
with  Indians,  who  were  united  in  the  service  of 
the  British.  He  fought  as  courageously  as  any 
man  in  the  ranks ;  nor  did  he  once  dream  of  his 
defenceless  family  at  home :  his  usurping  sensa- 
tion was  victory  over  the  enemy,  and  the  rescue 
of  his  country  from  foreign  usurpation.  In  the 
heat  of  action,  his  own  company  had,  by  some 
means,  broken  off  from  the  main  line ;  and  in  this 
situation  they  came  in  close  contact  with  a  body 


76 

of  Indians,  who,  superior  in  numbers  and  address, 
caused  them  to  retreat  still  farther,  until,  by  de- 
grees, they  were  completely  entangled  in  a  wood, 
where  they  endeavoured  to  take  refuge  from  their 
savage  pursuers.  Enveloped  in  thick  dust  and 
smoke,  they  scarcely  perceived  their  danger  be- 
fore it  was  too  late  to  avoid  it;  and  they  found  that 
they  must  either  fly,  or  try  to  save  their  lives  by 
secretion  behind  the  trees.  But  whoever  is  ac- 
quainted with  the  Indian  mode  of  warfare,  must 
be  aware  of  their  perilous  situation.  Our  unfor- 
tunate soldier  was  one  of  the  number ;  and  being 
totally  unused  to  the  hazards  of  war,  felt,  for  the 
moment,  as  if  his  last  hour  had  come,  and  deli- 
verance was  altogether  impossible.  But  how 
seldom  are  we  aware  of  the  nature  of  our  situa- 
tion !  we  often  imagine  ourselves  in  the  most  im- 
minent perils,  when  the  hand  of  Providence  is 
opening  to  befriend  us ;  and  we  as  frequently  view 
that  as  the  instrument  of  our  relief  which  tends 
to  plunge  us  into  the  evils  which  we  are  so  de- 
sirous of  escaping !  The  truth  is,  we  never  know 
when  we  are  really  in  danger,  nor  when  the  Di- 
vine hand  is  interfering  in  our  behalf;  so  that  it 
always  becomes  us,  while  depending  on  celestial 
aid,  never  to  despair,  but  to  use  every  means  in 


77 

our  power  to  remedy  our  condition.  While  thus 
terribly  encompassed,  our  soldier  made  a  pre- 
cipitate retreat  farther  within  the  intricacies  of 
the  forest ;  and,  favoured  by  the  noise  and  smoke, 
he  penetrated,  he  thought,  sufficiently  far  to 
evade  the  scrutiny  and  capture  of  the  enemy. 
But  the  report  of  a  gun  near  him,  and  the  sound 
of  a  multitude  of  feet,  urged  him  to  procure  tran- 
sient shelter  within  the  recess  of  a  darker  grove, 
and  prepare  himself  for  the  issue.  Now  he  had 
a  slight  opportunity  to  re-collect  his  scattered 
thoughts,  and  contemplate  on  what  a  slender 
thread  his  destiny  was  suspended.  The  roar 
of  the  adjacent  cannon  fearfully  resounded 
from  the  sides  of  the  hills,  allowing  no  interval 
for  the  ear  to  listen  to  their  dying  cadences — 
the  shrill  and  deafening  tones  of  martial  music, 
borne  aloft  upon  the  wind,  with  occasional  guttural 
murmurs,  that  resembled  cries  of  human  distress, 
kept  the  mind  alive  with  overwhelming  sensa- 
tions. The  soldier  now  thought  of  himself — then 
of  his  wife  and  children,  whom  he  had  left  the 
night  before. — He  seemed  like  one  labouring 
under  the  influence  of  a  horrible  dream,  and  had 
not  the  power  of  awakening  and  shaking  off  the 
delusion.  He  already  heard  the  cry  of  battle 


78 

approaching  around  his  enclosure,  and  he  feared 
to  raise  the  impending  branches  to  inform  him- 
self of  what  was  passing.  The  discharge  of  a 
shower  of  muskets  against  the  grove  where  he 
was  concealed,  aroused  him  from  his  stupor,  and 
forced  him  to  plunge  deeper,  if  possible,  within 
the  shades  of  the  forest,  and  seek  some  avenue 
to  a  safer  asylum.  He  succeeded  in  extricating 
himself  from  the  thickets ;  but  what  was  his  dis- 
may in  retreating,  to  observe  several  fierce  In-* 
dians  making  hastily  towards  him,  and  threaten- 
ing, by  their  gestures  and  shrieks,  to  sacrifice  him 
to  their  revenge.  Fear,  for  the  instant,  lent  him 
the  fleetness  of  a  deer,  and  he  was  conscious  of 
leaving  behind  him  trees,  rocks,  and  stubble ;  at 
one  time  wounding  his  feet  by  the  thorns  which 
grew  along  the  ground;  at  another,  being  im- 
peded by  the  wildering  bushes  and  briars,  which 
entangled  the  course  he  was  pursuing.  He  some- 
times heard  the  trample  of  his  hunters — then  he 
listened  to  the  rattle  of  their  war  instruments, — 
then  almost  to  their  breathings,  and  looking  be- 
hind, he  actually  saw  one  of  their  hatchets  raised, 
and  felt  as  if  it  was  already  lodged  within  his  tem- 
ples. A  tall,  mis-shapen  rock  suddenly  diverted 
the  progress  of  the  fugitive ;  and  catching  at  a 


79 

vine  branch  which  hung  down  its  side,  he  gained 
an  instant  footing  upon  the  opposite  cleft,  which 
shelved  down  a  steep  hill  into  a  gloomy  valley, 
that  hardly  admitted  the  least  glimpse  of  day. 
The  rock  upon  which  he  sprung  was  one  of  those 
singular  excavations  which  nature  has  so  fre- 
quently produced,  doubtless,  by  some  of  those 
physical  convulsions  which  have  rent  the  fairest 
portions  of  our  globe.  It  contained  within  it  a 
hollow  passage  that  seemed  to  wind  around  the 
sides  of  a  hill,  and  was  completely  hidden  from 
observation  by  the  immense  forest  trees  above  it, 
and  the  innumerable  boughs  of  bush  foliage  and 
vines,  which  involved  the  devious  cleft  in  its  sha- 
dow. Into  this  seasonable  cavity  our  hunted 
veteran  sought  refuge  from  the  attacks  of  his 
brethren  of  the  forest :  he  laid  quietly  down  be- 
neath an  overshadowing  vine,  which  seemed  to 
hover  over  him  as  a  watchful  sentinel,  preparing 
to  ward  off  every  danger.  He  listened  only  to 
hollow  moanings  of  the  wind,  rushing  through 
the  high  projecting  rocks,  and  now  arid  then,  the 
faint  murmurs  of  the  battle  which  was  raging  so 
fiercely  behind.  No  sound  of  either  human  voice 
or  footstep  was  heard.  He  began  to  think  that 
the  Indians  had  abandoned  their  prey,  and  that 


ao 

they  had  returned  to  rejoin  the  contest  in  the 
field.  Thus  we  often  fancy  ourselves  secure, 
when  danger  most  imminently  threatens  us ;  and 
it  is  rarely,  until  we  are  startled  by  the  thunder- 
bolt, that  we  are  alive  to  the  perils  of  the  storm. 
He  was  nearly  closing  his  eyes  with  fatigue,  when 
he  spied  several  of  his  enemies  climbing  the 
rocky  enclosure,  and  gazing  anxiously  around  in 
search  of  their  victim.  They  soon  discovered 
him  in  the  gloom  of  his  concealment,  and  they 
rushed  eagerly  to  secure  their  prey.  But  as  swift 
as  lightning  he  slipped  through  the  hollow  rock, 
and  alighted  unhurt  upon  the  valley  beneath.  He 
fled  down  the  hill  through  the  thickest  of  the 
forest,  and  still  heard  the  warwhoop  of  the  blood- 
hounds crying  terribly  from  behind.  He  began 
to  fear  that  escape  was  impossible.  He  had 
placed  too  much  dependence  hitherto  in  his  own 
unaided  efforts,  and  too  little  in  the  protection  of 
an  overruling  Providence ;  and,  now  that  he  be- 
gan to  despair  of  his  own  resources,  he  cried 
aloud  to  Heaven,  in  the  anguish  of  his  spirit,  in- 
voking its  aid  in  behalf  of  his  defenceless  situa- 
tion. He  who  knows  our  wants,  only  requires 
our  prayers  to  make  us  sensible  of  our  depend- 
once;  and  before  he  extends  the  blessing,  desires 


that  the  heart  be  first  prepared  for  its  reception. 
Having  followed  the  valley  that  was  washed 
by  a  brawling  streamlet,  he  crossed  a  thicker 
labyrinth  of  trees,  and  here  stood  still  to  as- 
certain whether  his  enemies  were  near.  The  shrill 
cry  of  the  whippoorwill,  and  the  hoarse  croak- 
ing of  the  frogs,  were  all  the  sounds  that  he 
heard;  and  nothing  appeared  in  view  but  the 
dim  forest  scenery.  He  was  entirely  defenceless; 
for  his  musket  he  had  been  compelled  to  throw 
away  to  assist  him  in  his  flight ;  and  he  was  wea- 
ried out  by  anxiety  and  fatigue.  The  dread  of 
meeting  the  Indians,  whom  he  fancied  he  beheld 
in  the  wavings  of  every  branch,  urged  him  to 
move  on ;  but  it  was  dejectedly  and  slowly ;  and  he 
fainted  at  the  idea  of  perishing  in  the  desert, 
without  the  succour  of  a  single  friend.  He  was 
in  one  of  those  forests  which  sweep  many  miles 
in  extent,  without  the  possibility  of  finding  an  in- 
habitant. He  had  no  charter  or  compass  to  direct 
his  course : — night  was  coming  on,  and  the  small 
portion  of  the  heavens  which  met  the  eye  was 
gradually  sinking  into  the  same  obscurity  as 
the  forest.  The  roar  of  the  panther  and  the 
bear,  added  to  the  cry  of  other  innumerable 
creatures,  diverted  the  soldier's-  fears  into  a  dif- 
No.  IX.— 3 


82 

ferent  channel.    He  concluded  that  he  had  been 
driven  here  by  the  Indians,  merely  to  be  devoured 
by  wild  beasts ;  and  his  fears  inspiring  him  with 
renewed  caution,  he  began  to  look  around  for 
shelter  for  the  night.     It  is  singular,  how  one  fear 
is  often  removed  by  the  apprehension  of  another, 
and  what  slender  hopes  can  minister  support  to 
the  exhausted  and  anguished  mind.    There  is 
something  too  insupportable  in  the  thought  of 
being  entirely  alone,  exposed  to  evils  out  of  the 
call  of  a  single  living  creature,  and  far  from  those 
dear  friends  who  are  wont  to  alleviate  our  sor- 
rows.  But  we  should  always  remember  that  there 
is  a  divine  Shepherd  who  "  never  slumbers  or 
sleeps;"  who  always  delivers  in  his  own  good 
time,  and  renders  the  means,  which  others  would 
deem  destructive,  instrumental  in  raising  us  from 
our  depression.     He  carries  us  through  various 
dangers,  and,  after  he  has  exhausted  all  our  stock 
of  resources,  he  places  us  on  the  pinnacle  of  de- 
struction, only  to  manifest  his  power  in  saving 
us,  and  compel  us  to  ascribe  all  the  praise  to 
that  Supreme  Hand  which  has  led  us  safely  in- 
despite  of  ourselves. 

Persuaded  that  his  enemies  must  have  aban- 


83 

doned  their  search,  he  came  to  a  broad,  stumpy 
tree,  whose  branches  appeared  to  have  been 
long  broken  off  by  age ;  and  from  the  moss  and 
vegetation  which  lined  the  side,  he  concluded  to 
find  at  the  top  the  safety  and  repose  he  was  in 
quest  of.  To  ascend  it  was  but  the  work  of  a 
moment,  for  the  perforations  in  the  bark,  and  the 
vine  branches  around  the  tree,  enabled  our  hero 
to  gain  a  secure  footing.  Here,  with  nothing 
in  sight  but  the  stars,  and  surrounded  by 
the  green  curtains  of  leaves  afforded  by  the 
neighbouring  trees,  he  threw  himself  upon  a  nar* 
row  mossy  cavity,  carved  alone  by  the  chisel  of 
time ;  and  here  he  felt  that  he  could  sleep  se- 
curely from  the  apprehension  of  either  Indians  or 
wild  beasts.  The  whole  forest  was  now  alive 
with  the  howl  of  its  various  animals.  Some- 
times they  were  heard  distinctly  approaching  the 
tree,  and  bellowing  at  the  bottom  as  if  desirous 
of  their  victim : — at  others,  they  would  congre- 
gate in  herds,  and  cause  the  woods  to  tremble 
under  the  awfulness  of  the  sound:  once  he  heard 
something  apparently  mounting  to  his  asylum — 
then  the  sound  died  away,  and  he  thought  he  lis- 
tened to  the  echo  of  human  footsteps.  But  re- 
membering again  the  preservations  of  the  past 


84 

day,  and  the  almighty  Being  to  whom  he  must 
have  been  indebted,  he  sunk  into  a  sweet  and 
undisturbed  repose.     How  long  he  slept  he  was 
unconscious;   but  the  first  sensation  he  expe- 
rienced was  that  of  falling;   and  waking  gra- 
dually from  slumber,  he  found  himself  sliding 
through  a  deep  aperture,  from  which  he  found  it 
impossible  to   emerge.      For  the   moment,  he 
apprehended  that  he  was  labouring  under  a  hor- 
rible dream,  and  made  every  exertion  to  shake 
off  the  oppressive  phantom;   but,  still  feeling 
himself  sinking  lower  and  lower,  he  concluded 
that  he  was  falling  through  the  cavity  of  the  hol- 
low trunk ;  but  whether  he  should  alight  upon  a 
den  of  adders,  or  wild  beasts,  was  the  next  ques- 
tion that  wakened  his  alarm.     His  heart  almost 
sunk  within  him,  when  his  foot  encountered  some- 
thing like  an  animal,  apparently  asleep,  and  little 
expecting  the  approach  of  a  human  visiter  at  so 
unseasonable  an  hour.     He  vainly  endeavoured 
to  scale  the  hollow  rampart  which  had  become 
smooth,  no  doubt,  by  the  continual  passage  of 
some  animal  through  it.     It  was  impossible  to 
remain  where  he  was,  but  descend  he  must,  were 
his  life  dependent  on  the  issue.    It  must  have 
been  verging  towards  morning — he  could  not  have 


85 

slept  more  than  two  or  three  hours ;  and  what- 
ever dangers  he  was  to  meet,  were  to  be  grap- 
pled with  in  solitary  darkness.  He  thought  of 
the  Indians  who  had  hunted  him  through  the 
day ;  but  that  was  trifling,  compared  with  his  pre- 
sent situation.  He  had  then  the  light  of  heaven, 
and  his  own  liberty  to  protect  him ;  but  now  he 
was  a  manacled  prisoner,  and  liable  to  fall  into 
the  very  jaws  of  death,  which  were  probably 
opening  to  receive  him.  He  wished  himself  a 
thousand  times  back  again  in  the  forest ;  and 
would  have  preferred  being  enslaved  by  the  In- 
dians, than  doomed  to  the  horrors  of  so  ago- 
nizing a  death.  Having  reached  the  ground,  he 
felt  several  animals  moving  about  him;  and, 
examining  them  with  his  hands,  he  was  con- 
vinced that  they  were  young  cubs,  and  that  he 
must  have  fallen  into  a  bear's  den.  His  next 
anxiety  was  to  ascertain  whether  the  old  bear 
was  there ;  for,  in  that  case,  his  destruction  was 
unavoidable. 

Groping  about  the  place,  he  discovered  to  his 
joy  that  the  parent  bear  was  absent,  and  was,  no 
doubt,  prowling  abroad  for  sustenance  through 
the  regions  of  the  forest.  Renewed  courage 


at) 

animated  his  heart ;  for  there  was  one  ray  of  hope 
to  dispel  the  darkness  which  preyed  upon  his 
spirits.  The  bear  in  descending  her  den  always 
enters  in  a  retrograde  position,  being  always  fear- 
ful of  a  surprise ;  and  in  that  case,  is  better  capa- 
ble of  retreating  from  the  danger.  It  was  on 
this  pivot  of  safety  that  the  hopes  of  our  soldier 
rested;  for,  unless  his  anticipations  were  re- 
alized, there  was  no  other  alternative  than 
to  perish.  Hope  is  the  last  principle  that  for- 
sakes the  human  heart.  There  is  no  condition, 
however  miserable,  that  has  not  a  solace :  there 
is  no  moral  wound,  however  deadly,  but  has  its 
medicine  to  heal  it.  There  can  be  no  stronger 
proof  of  a  Providence,  than  the  fact  that  the 
mind  is  always  cheered  in  the  darkest  of  its  ca- 
lamities, by  the  expectation  of  deliverance : — it 
for  ever  awaits  another  morrow's  sun,  more  bril- 
liant than  the  present ;  and  views  the  clouds  of 
the  present  hour  vanishing  in  the  bright  heaven 
of  approaching  enjoyment.  Who  can  otherwise 
than  feel  grateful  to  Heaven  which  places  us  in  a 
world  where  even  adversity  is  made  the  medium 
of  preparing  us  for  a  better,  and  which  reconciles 
us  to  sorrow  by  feasting  us  with  rainbow  visions 
of  hope. 


87 


'•  Cherish  hope !  and  though  life  by  affliction  be  shaded ; 

Still  his  ray  shall  shine  lovely  and  gild  the  scene  o'er, 

Like  the  dew-drop  that  glistens  the  leaves  when  they're 

faded, 
As  bright  and  as  clear,  as  they  glisten'd  before." 

Our  soldier  awaited  the  return  of  the  bear, 
with  his  eyes  directed  to  the  stars,  which  bril- 
liantly sparkled  upon  him  from  the  narrow  mouth 
of  his  cavern,  which  seemed  to  him  an  impassa- 
ble gulph.  An  hour,  at  farthest,  he  knew  must 
decide  his  fate ;  but  he  was  now  convinced  that 
He  who  preserved  him  from  the  Indians  was  as 
capable  of  rescuing  him  from  the  paw  of  the 
bear ;  and  in  Him  he  supremely  relied  for  deliver- 
ance from  his  prison.  While  intently  regarding 
the  entrance  of  his  sepulchre,  he  heard  around  the 
tree  the  growling  of  the  bear,  and,  at  the  same 
instant,  her  endeavours  to  climb  the  tree.  He 
was  soon  conscious  of  her  gaining  the  top,  and 
entering  the  cavity,  by  the  sudden  intermission  of 
light  from  above  :  now  his  fears  began  to  return, 
— his  heart  beat  with  unusual  violence,  as  he 
heard  her  slowly  descending,  and  even  preparing, 
perhaps,  to  sacrifice  him  to  her  hunger.  But  the 
hour  had  come  when  that  Being,  who  had 
permitted  him  to  fall  into  danger,  interposed  his 


88 

arm  in  the  suspension  of  his  sufferings.  Feeling 
himself  endowed  with  super-human  courage,  he 
watched  his  opportunity,  when  Bruin  came  within 
a  reaching  distance,  to  grasp  her  by  the  hinder 
legs,  and  in  this  situation  he  was  rapidly  drawn 
Up  by  the  terrified  bear  from  his  dismal  dungeon. 
When  arriving  at  the  top,  the  unfortunate  animal 
sprung  from  it  with  all  her  might,  and  being 
merely  stunned  by  the  fall,  gave  our  soldier  suffi- 
cient time  to  escape  from  his  dangers,  and  en- 
joy with  his  family,  whom  he  shortly  found,  the 
gratulations  of  his  "  Providential  Release." 


IK13IAN 


Know  ye  the  Indian  warrior  race  ? 
How  the  light  form  springs  in  strength  of  grace  i 
Like  the  pine  on  their  native  mountain  side, 
That  will  not  bow  in  its  death-like  pride. — SANDS. 


IF  eloquence  be  the  communication  of  our 
sentiments  and  feelings  to  the  minds  and  sensi- 
bilities of  others,  then  that  which  is  least  fettered 
by  art,  and  is  most  congenial  with  the  simplicity 
of  nature,  produces  the  most  powerful  and  last- 
ing impression.  It  is  for  this  reason  that  the 
most  celebrated  orators  seldom  excite  any  other 
sensation  than  a  transient  admiration  of  their 
abilities,  while  the  hearers  go  away  with  their 
judgments  uninformed,  and  their  hearts  unim- 
pressed by  the  opinions  which  they  have  heard 
advanced.  There  are  numerous  instances,  01 
the  contrary,  of  individuals  who,  without  pre- 
vious culture,  or  devotion  of  their  talents,  cui? 
rise  at  a  moment's  warning,  and  address  a  large 

No.  IX.— I 


90 

auditory  with  energy  and  effect ;  who  can  sway 
the  ruling  passions  of  the  multitude  by  the  magic 
influence  of  their  eloquence  ;  who  can  make  the 
guilty  tremble  under  the  darkness  of  their  frown, 
and  fire  to  the  noblest  and  holiest  deeds,  by  the 
winning  smiles  of  persuasion.  This  is  really 
the  eloquence  of  nature,  which  is  seldom  ac- 
quired by  study ;  for  there  is  something  too  stiff 
and  laboured  in  the  pupilage  of  art,  which 
finds  no  access  to  the  affections,  being  altogether 
confined  to  externals,  and  too  much  occupied 
with  rules  to  converse  freely  in  the  glowing 
language  that  flows  irresistibly  from  the  heart. 
Though  discipline  may  correct  false  habits,  and 
eradicate  erroneous  principles  which  we  have 
carelessly  imbibed,  it  can  never  impart  to  the 
mind  the  power  of  true  eloquence,  which  must, 
always  germinate  from  the  treasures  of  the  in- 
tellect, and  must  principally  depend  On  two  im- 
portant faculties — intelligence  and  sensibility.  By 
intelligence  is  to  be  understood,  the  power  of 
clearly  comprehending  and  unfolding  the  various 
topics  within  the  sphere  of  our  inquiry :  and  by 
sensibility,  that  impassioned  tone  of  the  feelings 
which  always  inspires  our  words,  when  we 
would  evidence  our  sincerity,  and  manifest  how 


& 

deeply  we  arc  concerned  in  the  truth  of  what 
we  declare.  In  this  sense  every  one  may 
be  eloquent  who  possesses  a  clear  and  compre- 
hensive mind,  and  feels  strongly  and  tenderly  the 
sentiments  he  describes.  It  is  for  this  reason 
that  no  one  can  be  so  whose  ideas  flow  not 
lucidly  and  freely;  and  who  is  not  warmly 
affected  by  the  grandeur  of  his  subject.  They 
who  think  deeply,  and  powerfully,  and  who  are 
most  easily  moved  to  tears,  are  always  the 
most  effective  speakers ;  and  they  are  those  who 
always  carry  the  sway  in  the  pulpit,  the  senate, 
and  the  bar.  Although  reason  and  good  sense 
often  exercise  authority  over  the  decision  of  the 
judgment,  yet  it  is  their  co-operation  with  the 
affections  that  renders  the  victory  complete,  and 
binds  the  hearer  in  willing  chains.  An  eloquent 
public  speaker  cannot  be  more  fitly  represented 
than  by  the  sun.  Were  light  the  only  effect  pro- 
duced by  this  luminary,  the  physical  world  would 
freeze  up  and  perish :  but  it  also  imparts  the  in- 
fluence of  heat,  which  animates  and  matures 
animal  and  vegetable  life,  and  enables  the  objects 
thus  enlightened  to  feel  sensible  of  its  effects. 
So  intellectual  light  requires  the  aid  of  sensibility 
to  call  its  dormant  powers  into  operation,  and 


9:2 

impart  that  vital  unction  and  fire,  which  can 
only  enstamp  its  influence  upon  the  soul.  It  is 
on  this  account  that  savages  have  been  distin- 
guished for  remarkable  traits  of  eloquence, 
although  they  have  never  studied  it  as  a  science, 
being  inspired  solely  by  the  ebullitions  of  the 
moment,  and  the  importance  of  the  subject  alone. 
We  must  remember  that  circumstances  of  little 
moment  to  us,  strike  them  by  their  novelty 
with  far  greater  force ;  and  the  violent  passions 
which  excite  them  give  a  tone  to  their  ideas 
which  would  otherwise  be  lost.  Without  a  co- 
pious language,  and  unable  to  illustrate  their 
thoughts  by  those  innumerable  aids  afforded  by 
civilization,  they  are  compelled  to  make  use  of 
those  bold,  natural  symbols  which  meet  their  eye, 
and  which  cannot  but  awaken  the  interest  of 
the  speaker.  Whenever  a  mind  is  observed 
among  them  of  more  than  ordinary  strength, 
and  with  an  imagination  more  than  usually  en- 
kindled, it  boldly  depends  on  the  strength  of  its 
own  resources,  examines  and  compares  the  topics 
within  the  range  of  its  observation  with  eagle- 
eyed  precision,  and  gives  vent  to  its  convictions 
in  the  loftiest  and  most  energetic  strains  of  which 
its  powers  and  feelings  are  susceptible.  They 


ft 

who  have  listened  to  the  speeches  of  some  ot 
our  American  Indians  can  form  some  conception 
of  what  natural  intelligence  and  sensibility  can 
effect,  even  when  unassisted  by  the  rules  of  art 
They  who  have  suffered  most,  and  are  still 
bleeding  under  the  wounds  of  sorrow,  are 
always  the  most  impressive  and  eloquent;  and 
when  to  this  is  joined  a  comprehensive  mind, 
capable  of  examining  and  analyzing  conse- 
quences, the  individual  rises  to  the  highest  grade 
of  the  art.  It  is  because  our  American  Indians 
have  endured  so  many  unredressed  wrongs, 
and  have  felt  themselves  outcasts  from  their 
own  ancient  domicile,  that  they  can  never  see 
the  face  of  a  white  man,  or  think  of  their  former 
privileges,  without  being  aroused  to  the  highest 
indignation,  and  feeling  all  their  faculties  and 
passions  on  fire.  Who  can  wonder,  then,  if  the 
most  highly  gifted  of  their  nation  give  vent  to 
the  torrent  of  their  enthusiasm,  and  astonish 
and  melt  the  hearts  of  those  to  whom  they 
communicate  their  wrongs  ?  Having  been,  in  a 
great  measure,  wanderers  for  many  ages  past, 
and  exposed  to  the  incursions  of  so  many  foes, 
they  have  been  endowed  by  the  God  of  nature 
with  singular  tact  and  cunning,  by  which  they 


often  ward  oft'  the  threatened  danger,  and  si- 
lence and  defeat  the  machinations  of  their  ene- 
mies. Keen  in  stratagem,  and  prompt  in  re- 
partee, they  have  often  occasioned  considerable 
amusement  in  their  councils ;  and  extorted  con- 
fessions from  their  adversaries  of  their  superior 
address  and  talents. 

Through  the  politeness  of  a  learned  President 
of  one  of  our  western  colleges,  I  am  enabled  to 
illustrate  these  remarks,  by  an  instance  of  Indian 
eloquence,  distinguished  by  all  the  playfulness  of 
wit,  and  the  bitterness  of  sarcasm.  The  Rev. 
Joshua  Badger,  an  aged  man  still  living  in  Ohio, 
was  a  missionary,  about  twenty  years  ago,  among 
the  Wyandot  Indians  j  and,  during  that  time, 
took  considerable  pains  in  rescuing  from  oblivion 
numerous  traditionary  facts  in  reference  to  that 
tribe.  Among  those  deserving  of  a  first  rank  in 
his  catalogue,  the  following  circumstance  is  not 
unworthy  of  preservation. 

About  two  centuries  ago,  the  Senecas  made 
destructive  inroads  upon  the  Wyandots,  around 
Sandusky,  and  expelled  them  from  their  territory. 
The  latter,  with  their  fleet  of  canoes,  moved 


95 

along  the  north  side  of  Lake  Erie,  towards  Long 
Point,  and  there  concealed  themselves,  intend- 
ing, no  doubt,  to  settle  in  that  region.  Having 
sent  out  spies  to  ascertain  whether  the  Senecas 
were  disposed  to  molest  them,  they  discovered 
that  the  enemy  was  secretly  fitting  out  for  a 
water  expedition,  to  start  from  Buffalo  creek, 
and  preparing  to  fall  upon  them  unawares,  and 
sacrifice  them  on  the  altar  of  their  revenge. 
Having  been  informed,  by  their  scouts,  of  the  de- 
signs which  were  in  agitation,  the  Wyandots 
made  preparations  to  meet  them.  The  move- 
ments of  the  Senecas  were  closely  watched  ;  sen- 
tinels were  on  the  alert  to  communicate  every 
intelligence ;  the  women  and  children  were  con- 
veyed to  a  place  of  safety,  and  the  warriors  al- 
ready felt  themselves  engaged  in  battle,  and  oc- 
cupied the  interval  of  expectation  in  mock  en- 
counters with  one  another. 

Elated  by  the  sure  prospect  of  success,  and 
already  counting  the  spoils  and  scalps  of  their 
enemies,  the  Senecas  advanced  intrepidly  for- 
xvard,  hardly  supposing  it  necessary  to  study  cau- 
tion with  those  who  they  presumed  little  dreamed 
of  their  approach.  The  sun  was  about  setting 


90 

oil  the  lake ;  and  the  golden  floods  of  light  whick 
he  poured  upon  the  calm  waters  and  heavens, 
seemed  to  lead  them  on  to  a  glorious  victory. 
They  already  heard  the  band  of  their  departed 
warriors  urging  them  to  bloodshed,  and  whisper- 
ing in  their  ears  the  triumphs  of  their  success. 
"When  that  sun   shall  rise  again,"  exclaimed 
their  indignant  chieftain,  "  Wyandot  shall  be  no 
more ;  he  shall  no  more  raise  his  hatchet  to  bury 
it  in  my  tribe — he  shall  have  gone  out  in  dark- 
ness, like  that  great  light  which  is  even  now  hid- 
den from  my  sight."     As  soon  as  the  Senecas 
had   advanced  to  a  favourable  position,  where 
they  might  hurl  upon  their  enemies  the  thunder- 
bolt of  ruin,  unexpected  showers  of  arrows  as- 
sailed them  from  all  quarters :  hundreds  of  them 
fell  lifeless  into  the  lake,  while  their  mighty  chief, 
towering  as  the  sons  of  Anak,  was  numbered 
with  the  dead,  and  precipitated  into  the  waters 
below.     What  could  be  done?     It  was  manifest 
that  the  Great  Spirit  was  the  friend  of  the  Wy- 
andots,  and  that  the  wrongs  which  they  had  re- 
ceived from  the  Senecas,  were  only  to  be  indem- 
nified by  their  blood.     The  vanquished  submit- 
ted to  the  Wyandots,  consented  to  bury  the 
hatchet,  brighten  the  chain  of  friendship,  and 


H? 

associate  as  brethren  on  the  friendliest  and  most 
intimate  terms. 

To  these  propositions  the  Wyandots  acceded. 
The  Senecas  then  proposed  that  they  should  all 
unite  in  partaking  of  a  feast,  to  be  mingled  with 
songs  of  joy  usual  on  such  occasions,  as  demon' 
strative  of  the  mutual  friendship  subsisting  be- 
tween them.  Accordingly,  upon  the  appointed 
day,  both  nations  feasted  with  great  glee  upon 
the  venison  and  game  which  had  been  abundantly 
provided ;  and  smoked  and  exchanged  the  calu- 
met of  peace  in  ratification  of  the  treaty.  The 
latter  is  always  preserved  to  be  lighted  up  in 
councils,  whenever  any  thing  occurs  relative  to 
the  ally,  and  each  member  then  smokes  it  to  re- 
mind the  other  of  his  covenant.  Belts  of  wam- 
pum and  other  warlike  valuables  were  also  given 
and  received.  The  principal  belt  was  white,  with 
two  black  streaks  down  the  sides,  and  black 
spots  on  each  end,  by  which  both  nations  were 
denoted.  Having  a  white  streak  in  the  middle, 
it  was  said  to  signify  that  the  road  between  them 
was  cleared  of  all  incumbrances ;  and  that  every 
hindrance  was  now  removed  to  make  way  for 
perfect  harmony.  They  then  drank  Cussene 

No.  X.—l 


with  many  singular  invocations,  calling  on  the 
name  of  Ye-Ho-Wah !  Waving  large  fans  of 
eagles'  tails,  and  keeping  time  with  the  rattling 
of  a  hollow  gourd,  they  spent  much  time  in 
dancing,  and  singing  their  national  war  songs. 
The  Senecas  then  recounted  the  praises  of  their 
ancestors,  whom  they  commended  in  the  loudest 
strains  for  their  martial  achievements  and  valour. 
They  were  a  nation  of  warriors,  they  said,  cele- 
brated in  song  from  time  immemorial — being 
thunderbolts  in  war,  but  in  peace,  lambs.  They 
were  like  the  summer  storm,  that  causes  the  har- 
vest to  bow  under  its  stroke : — and  again,  they 
were  compared  to  the  lightning  of  heaven,  that 
consumes  whatever  comes  in  its  way.  They  also 
celebrated  the  virtues  of  the  Wyandots,  repre- 
senting them  only  as  extraordinary  hunters, 
famed  far  and  wide  for  taking  various  sorts  of 
game,  and  particularly  the  Beaver :  but  while 
they  highly  extolled  them  for  their  skill  in  hunting 
this  animal,  they  cuttingly  described  them  as  no 
warriors,  being  merely  distinguished  for  their  en- 
dowments in  the  chase.  The  Wyandots  bore 
the  insult  with  considerable  patience.  They  felt 
the  injustice  of  the  alligation,  and,  resolving  not 
ta  be  outdone  by  the  boldness  of  their  allies. 


99 

meditated  upon  a  reply: — the  blood  boiled  in 
their  veins,  and  they  longed  to  give  vent  to  their 
indignation. 

After  the  Seneca  warriors  had  finished  their 
speech  at  the  expense  of  the  unfortunate  Wyan- 
dots,  a  dead  silence  of  several  minutes  succeed- 
ed. But  it  was  evident,  from  the  features  of  the 
latter,  that  a  violent  storm  was  gathering.  At 
length,  a  very  aged  arid  infirm  Wyandot,  appa- 
rently more  than  five-score  years,  arose.  A  few 
scattered  hairs  of  silver  lighted  up  his  dark  fore- 
head,— the  fire  of  valour  was  still  burning  on  his 
cheek,  but  it  was  almost  extinguished  by  the 
frosts  of  age :  his  eye  was  still  enkindled  by  the 
glory  of  former  days,  but  its  unnatural  twinkling 
gave  evidence  of  its  speedy  extinction.  His  hol- 
low voice,  when  he  spoke,  resembled  the  dying 
murmurs  of  the  storm,  when  it  faintly  sweeps 
over  the  lake ;  and  like  the  withered  oak  on  his 
own  mountains,  whose  verdant  boughs  had  long 
since  decayed,  he  fearlessly  stood  up  to  face 
the  blast.  Rising,  like  the  last  of  his  race,  from 
the  verge  of  the  tomb,  in  vindication  of  his 
tribe,  he  was  gazed  at  by  every  eye ;  for  there 
was  something  celestial  in  his  aspect  that  com- 


100 

manded  admiration  and  respect.  Who  can  re- 
frain from  honouring  the  presence  of  venerable 
age?  When  its  lips  are  the  gates  of  wisdom, 
and  its  brow  the  depository  of  virtue,  it  claims 
the  homage  of  princes,  and  the  incense  of  the 
best  affections  of  the  heart.  It  is  the  living  mo- 
nument that  records  the  preservation  of  the  Di- 
vine hand!  It  is  the  ancient  temple  of  the 
Holy  Spirit,  which  is  falling  into  ruins  for  a  while : 
and  they  who  can  look  coldly  upon  this  monument 
of  heaven,  without  being  instructed  in  a  Provi- 
dence— they  who  can  watch  this  temple  of  divine 
grace  falling  to  ruins,  and  shed  no  tears  over 
their  own  mortality,  are  bereft  of  sensibilities  as 
sublime  in  their  nature  as  they  are  honourable 
and  ennobling  to  their  possessors. 


Having  heard  his  nation  satirised,  the  aged 
warrior  said  that  he  felt  as  if  he  would  sing  one 
more  song  at  a  feast,  which  was  probably  the 
last  which  he  should  ever  attend.  He  requested 
some  of  the  young  men  to  conduct  him  to  a  tree, 
with  his  war-club  in  his  hand,  which  was  imme- 
diately complied  with.  All  eyes  were  fastened 
on  him.  He  commenced  smiting  the  tree  with 


101 

his  war-club  in  true  Indian  style,  and  thus  re- 
hearsed his  sentiments. 

"  Brother  Senecas !  Not  many  years  ago,  the 
Great  Spirit  caused  you  to  spring  from  a  large 
mountain,  at  the  head  of  the  Gerundewagh  lake. 
There  you  received  your  birth,  and  offered  up 
your  prayers.  You  assembled  there  perpetually 
in  council,  to  hold  your  long  talks,  and  you  de- 
stroyed a  monstrous  serpent  which  had  coiled 
around  your  nation,  threatening  to  destroy  it; 
but  the  Great  Spirit  empowered  you  to  come  off 
conquerors.  Then  you  flourished  powerful  and 
numerous  as  the  waves  of  yonder  mighty  lake, 
until  all  the  land  was  covered  by  the  darkness  of 
your  shadow.  Your  voice  was  thunder  to  the 
ears  of  all  the  Indians — your  eye  was  lightning, 
consuming  all  within  its  glance ;  and  your  hand 
grasped  all  that  came  within  its  reach,  until  it 
became  so  full  that  it  overflowed.  There  was 
no  battle  in  which  your  warwhoop  was  not  the 
loudest ;  and  when  your  victorious  songs  did  not 
fall  upon  the  ear.  Brother  Senecas!  you  are 
truly  a  noble  race  of  warriors,  and  the  whole 
world  cannot  resist  your  sway.  But  remember, 
brothers,  you  are  no  hunters.  The  Great  Spirit 


102 

• '  ' 

has  only  made  you  great  and  mighty  in  battle, 
but  has  not  given  you  the  power  of  ferreting  out 
the  panther  to  his  den,  or  stripping  the  bear  and 
the  deer  of  their  skins :  you  cannot  follow  the 
steps  of  the  crafty  beaver,  nor  triumph,  by  your 
sagacity,  over  his  means  of  escape.  No;  the 
Great  Father  has  withheld  from  you  this  privi- 
lege, and  you  ought  therefore  to  be  content. 

Brother  Senecas !  We  have  also  come  from 
a  far  country,  and  have  extended  our  settlement 
along  the  southern  shore  of  Lake  Erie  even  to 
Sandusky  bay.  We  have  been  driven  like  wild 
beasts  from  the  forests  that  once  shaded  us,  and 
the  game  that  nurtured  our  families;  and  even 
here  we  have  been  driven  to  paths  which  our 
fathers  never  knew,  and  to  wigwams  which  ouri 
children  have  erected.  Brothers,  we  confess 
that  the  Great  Spirit  never  destined  us  for  war~ 
riors,  else  we  should  have  never  left  our  former 
home;  but  we  are  gratefully  contented  with  the 
simplicity  of  our  habits,  and  enjoy  no  better  pas- 
time than  the  exercise  of  the  chase.  Why  should 
we  murmur  if  the  Great  Father  has  designed  us 
to  become  great  hunters,  and  make  us  skilful  in 
the  chase?  Why  should  we  repine  at  our  lot? 


103 

We  are,  it  is  true,  renowned  hunters  ot  the  bea- 
ver :  you  were  right  in  saying  so.  It  is  our  occu- 
pation and  our  glory,  why  should  you  complain 
of  our  allotment  ? 

But  brothers,  we  have  not  come  here  to  boast 
of  our  skill  as  hunters,  but  to  prove  it  to  your 
satisfaction.  We  have  been  engaged  a  long 
time  in  discovering  and  destroying  a  whole  co- 
lony of  beavers,  who  attacked  our  habitations, 
and  threatened  to  extirpate  our  whole  tribe  by 
their  insidious  stratagems.  At  first  they  were 
too  many  and  powerful ;  but  we  attacked  them 
resolutely  until  we  were  compelled  to  seek  a  tem- 
porary flight,  and  regain  time  for  a  new  assault. 
We  were  not  idle — we  ascertained  that  the  bea- 
vers were  preparing  to  come  down  upon  us,  and 
we  laid  quietly,  ready  in  our  coverts.  One  even- 
ing, while  the  lake  was  reflecting  the  smile  of  the 
Great  Spirit,  we  heard  the  footsteps  of  the  bea- 
vers cautiously  entering  our  thickets.  We  flew 
upon  them  like  brave  hunters  experienced  in  all 
their  wiles,  and  with  the  velocity  of  a  thunderbolt, 
we  surprised — we  tomahawked — we  drowned 
them  in  the  lake.  In  the  midst  of  the  carnage, 
the  old  king  beaver  made  his  appearance.  His 


104 

size  and  strength  were  prodigious;  his  ex- 
ertions and  rage  were  like  an  impeded  cataract. 
But  he  fell  under  the  weight  of  our  arrows,  and 
thanks  to  the  Great  Spirit,  all  the  other  beavers 
who  escaped  the  carnage  acknowledged  them- 
selves fairly  beaten.  Thus,  brothers,  you  per- 
ceive that  we  are  no  warriors,  but  only  good 
hunters  of  the  beaver  ;  and  that  we  have  been 
indebted  for  our  safety  to  the  latter  endowment 
alone.  You  must  feel  too  the  force  of  the  con- 
fession of  our  Seneca  brothers,  that  they  are  no 
hunters,  but  merely  distinguished  warriors.  I 
have  done." 

The  sarcasm  of  the  old  Wyandot  was  severely 
felt  by  the  Senecas,  who  hung  down  their  heads, 
said  nothing  more  of  their  warlike  deeds,  but 
confessed  the  skill  of  the  Wyandots  in  hunting 
the  beaver. 


DEFAMATION  OF  CHARACTER. 


I  see,  the  jewel  best  enamell'd 

Will  lose  his  beauty  ;  and  though  gold  bides  gold  still, 

That  others  touch,  yet  often  touching  will 

Wear  gold  ;  and  no  man,  that  hath  a  name, 

But  falsehood  and  corruption  doth  it  shame. 

SHAKSPEARE. 


SAY  what  we  will, — there  is  no  wound  so 
deadly  as  that  which  calumny  inflicts :  there  is 
no  curse  more  bitter  than  that  which  rests  upon 
the  defamer  of  innocence.  Other  evils  we  may 
avoid.  We  may  guard  against  the  assaults  of 
the  mid-night  assassin  who  steals  into  our  cham- 
ber; defy  the  blackest  revenge  of  the  enemy ;  and 
even  escape  the  breath  of  the  most  contagious 
disorder:  but  who  can  fly  from  a  "pestilence 
that  walketh  in  darkness,"  or  avoid  falling  into  a 
gulf,  whose  mouth  is  hidden  with  poisonous 
flowers  ?  Go  where  we  may,  the  voice  of  detrac- 
tion will  reach  us.  It  will  disturb  the  peaceful 

No.  X— 2 


106 

privacy  of  our  solitude :  it  will  ring  after  us  in  a 
crowded  city,  in  the  hisses  of  a  thousand  tongues. 
The  purest  and  most  illustrious  that  ever  lived, 
have  felt  the  persecutions  of  this  insatiate  archer, 
and  no  mortal  breathing  can  escape  its  malevo- 
lent frown.  The  truth  is,  the  principle  of  envy, 
which  excites  all  to  tower  beyond  the  condition 
of  their  neighbours,  renders  them  blind  to  their 
own,  but  eagle-eyed  to  the  faults  and  infirmities 
of  others.  In  proportion  to  the  strength  of  this 
principle  will  be  the  degree  of  inveteracy  in- 
dulged. The  jaundiced  eye  will  clothe  every 
thing  it  sees  in  the  same  gloomy  complexion ; 
and  the  envious  mind  will  rather  dwell  upon  the 
darkest,  than  the  brightest  qualities  of  mind. 
What  matters  it  to  such  an  one,  that  another  is 
more  abundantly  blest,  and  more  conspicuously 
shares  the  bounties  of  Heaven  ?  His  selfishness 
is  stung  by  the  reflection,  that  whatever  the  one 
has  gained  is  lost  to  himself;  and  jealous  of  his  own 
inferiority,  he  would  madly  annihilate  every  bless- 
ing but  his  own,  and  almost  blot  the  sun  from  its 
sphere,  because  it  shines  brighter  upon  his 
neighbour's  habitation.  Such  minds  as  this  may 
be  said  to  have  been  created  rather  from  gra- 
nite than  from  human  clay:  the  sting  of  wasps 


107 

is  upon  their  lips ;  the  venom  of  adders  rankles 
in  their  hearts ;  and  the  malice  of  tigers  actuates 
their  conduct.  It  is  by  such  scorpions  as  these, 
that  men  of  feeling  and  sensibility  are  most 
keenly  stung.  Their  sentiments  are  too  delicate 
to  abide  the  fury  of  the  storm ;  and  they  weakly 
fall,  like  unprotected  vines,  before  the  slanderer's 
assaults.  But  "  does  an  eagle  stoop  at  a  wren  ? 
Is  the  skin  of  a  leopard  pierced  with  the  diminu- 
tive proboscis  of  a  gnat  ?  and  shall  a  man,  con- 
scious of  infirmity,  yet  unconscious  of  premedi- 
tated wrong,  permit  a  moth  to  rob  him  of  his 
birth-right ;  or  the  wing  of  a  caterpillar,  to  whom 
the  leaf  of  a  plant  is  an  empire, — to  screen  him 
from  the  splendour  of  a  summer's  day? — He 
who  permits  a  calumniator  to  conquer  his  mind, 
deserves  to  be  conquered." 

Defamation  of  character  may  be  traced  to 
either  of  the  following  sources :  namely,  inven- 
tion, malice,  idleness  and  loquacity. 

They  who  can  invent  a  lie  to  injure  another's 
fame,  are  the  basest  and  most  execrable  of 
wretches.  But  it  is  the  only  resort,  where  no- 
thing can  be  found  as  a  subject  of  reproach,  and 


where  nothing  else  can  mortify  and  depress  the 
proscribed  object.  Carrying  their  teeth,  like  the 
trout,  upon  their  tongue,  they  will  trample  upon 
innocence,  and  sacrifice  even  heaven  itself  to 
the  baseness  of  their  revenge.  It  was  the  opi- 
nion of  Pythagoras,  that  the  minds  of  slanderers 
were  serpents,  in  a  pre-existent  state,  and  would 
in  all  probability  become  scorpions  after  death  : 
but  would  he  not  have  given  double  virulence  to 
inventors  of  falsehood,  and  have  plunged  in  a 
more  fearful  punishment  those  who  could  so 
wantonly  and  wickedly  defame  the  characters  of 
their  fellow-men?  It  is  by  infernals,  like  these, 
that  the  best  of  men  are  so  virulently  attacked ; 
that  crimes  are  laid  to  their  charge,  of  which 
they  never  dreamed,  and  that  occasion  is  given  to 
the  enemies  of  religion  to  triumph  in  their  vil- 
lany.  But  let  them  go  to  the  fountain  whence  the 
stream  of  detraction  flowed — let  them  raise  the 
veil  which  unmasks  the  perfidy,  the  baseness, 
and  the  perjury  which  gave  being  to  the  lie  :  let 
them  frequent  the  noxious  tea-table,  the  gossip- 
ing parties,  and  the  idle  card-room,  where  the 
atmosphere  of  detraction  is  engendered  and 
breathed,  and  they  will  discover  their  mistake. 
But  the  misfortune  is,  that  even  though  the  false* 


109 

hood  is  discovered,  the  rankling  effects  still  fol- 
low the  individual.  Suspicion  of  crime  will  ever 
live  in  the  minds  of  many,  whose  prejudices 
and  distorted  views  can  never  be  convinced ;  and 
the  finger  of  shame  will  still  dare  to  point  at  in- 
nocence, until  disgusted,  and  irritated  into  crime, 
it  finds  only  in  the  grave  the  repose  it  desired. 

When  malice  is  the  motive  for  detraction,  it 
cares  not  respecting  the  means  of  crushing  its 
victim.  I  have  known  many  a  spotless  character 
traduced,  because  it  could  not  live  in  the  con- 
suming fire  of  another's  hatred.  The  individual 
either  stands  in  the  way  of  the  other's  prefer- 
ment, is  guilty  of  more  intellect  and  discern- 
ment, disgusts  by  his  misfortunes,  or  dares  to 
defend  himself  from  the  attacks  levelled  upon 
his  person.  Many  are  indignant  "  when  genius 
thinks  it  politic  to  magnify  itself:  and  yet  they 
ought  to  be  silent  and  reverential ;  for  the  more 
genius  enlarges  its  capacity,  the  more  gentle,  the 
more  amiable,  the  more  modest  it  becomes ;  as 
deep  oceans  are  more  pacific  than  shallow  ones." 
There  are  some  whose  malice  it  is  an  honour  to 
incur.  As  they  have  no  reputation  to  lose,  their  de- 
traction is  our  best  encomium, — their  esteem,  the 


110 

bitterest  reproach  upon  our  characters.  Who 
would  not  rather  imitate  the  silence  of  the  lion, 
at  hearing  the  braying  of  a  mule,  than  force  such 
reptiles  into  notice  by  the  severity  of  our  re- 
proofs? Hatred  is  the  element  in  which  they 
breathe;  and  they  could  not  exist  in  the  quiet 
waters  of  peace,  without  agitating  and  filling 
them  with  mire.  Why  should  we  be  indignant  if 
the  toad  spits  upon  us  his  venom,  and  the  serpent 
hisses  upon  us  its  enmity?  And  shall  we  suffer 
our  minds  to  be  disconcerted,  because  we  are  at- 
tacked by  the  clamours  of  the  malicious  ?  If 
the  law  cannot  defend  us,  let  us  live  our  re- 
proaches down  by  virtuous  and  exemplary  con- 
duct, and  trust  that  our  epitaph  will  be  written  by 
the  hands  of  the  virtuous  and  discriminating. 

But  defamation  of  character  most  generally 
proceeds  from  indolence  or  loquacity.  Those 
engaged  in  no  concerns  of  their  own,  are  al- 
ways sure  to  be  engrossed  in  those  of  others ;  and 
they  are  naturally  led  to  add  to  their  suspicions 
the  unfavourable  rumours  which  they  have  heard. 
Habits  thus  expensively  acquired,  excite  them 
to  dwell  upon  whatever  is  offensive  and  unamia- 
ble,  and  exaggerate  shades  of  character  which 


1J1 

they  but  imperfectly  behold.  They  observe  but  to 
detect  error — they  converse  but  to  elicit  faults — 
they  mingle  with  society  only  to  revile  its  frailties. 
Whatever  they  describe  they  magnify — whatever 
they  esteem  they  venerate — whatever  they  dis- 
like, they  speak  of  with  the  bitterest  abhorrence. 

Loquacity  as  frequently  ministers  to  a  ca- 
lumnious temper.  It  is  in  the  tide  of  conversa- 
tion, when  heart  meets  heart,  that  the  fame  of 
absent  friends  is  apt  to  be  assailed,  and  when 
every  idle  report  concerning  them  is  treasured 
up  and  circulated  with  avidity.  Then  the  du- 
bious shrug  and  the  cruel  insinuation  speak  far 
louder  than  language,  and  array  the  unhappy 
object  in  the  blackest  of  colours.  Oh,  what 
abominable  slanders  are  propagated  in  the 
thoughtlessness  of  conversation,  which,  in  the 
moments  of  reflection,  we  are  heartily  ashamed 
of  and  despise !  In  hours  of  secret  communion 
with  ourselves,  we  feel  that  those  we  censure 
are  undeserving  of  our  reproaches. — "We  find 
in  them"  with  Pilate,  "  no  fault  at  all ;"  and  were 
it  not  for  the  surmises  of  report,  and  the  shame  of 
retracting  what  we  have  said,  we  would  affec- 
tionately take  our  condemned  friends  by  the 


112 

hand.  Christians  have  also  to  learn,  that  "  to 
speak  evil  of  no  man,"  is  as  imperative  a  duty  as 
"  to  love  their  neighbour."  Alas !  that  their  pro- 
fessions and  practice  so  frequently  disagree ;  and 
that  instead  of  sowing  the  seeds  of  love  on  the 
soil  of  the  heart,  they  sometimes  prefer  to  en- 
graft it  with  thorns !  Many  a  noble  soul  has 
sunk  under  the  frown  of  these  calumnious  triflers ; 
and  many  a  tear  has  fallen,  and  many  a  heart  has 
been  broken,  that  will  one  day  ascribe  its  ruin  to 
an  ungovernable  tongue. 

"  Calumny 

Is  a  light  breeze,  a  gentle  zephyr  which 
Comes  on  in  whispers,  sweetly,  mildly,  scarce 
Perceptible.     At  first  a  still  small  voice 
Glides  softly  o'er  the  ground,  till  by  degrees 
Spreading  around,  it  wins  a  crafty  entrance 
Into  the  ears  of  men,  and  fills  the  brain 
With  pride  and  wild  amazement. 

Then  at  length, 

Finding  a  passage  by  the  tongue,  its  force 
Increases  ;  though  but  gradually  :  and  now, 
Flitting  from  place  to  place,  it  sweeps  along, 
Like  to  the  tempest,  and  the  thunder  storm 
That  desolates  the  forest,  and  congeals 
The  soul  of  man  with  horrer.     Yet  ere  long 
It  rushes  headlong,  bursts,  and  spreads  around 
Redoubled  fury  :  then,  in  one  loud  roar— • 


H3 

Heaveu's  own  artillery — wakes  the  giant  power 
Of  fearful  earthquake,  and  in  wild  dismay 
Rides  the  tumultuous  whirlwind. 

So  it  is 

With  calumny's  sad  victim — vilified 
And  spurn'd,  and  smarting  'neath  the  public  lash. 
Fate  drives  him  on  to  ruin." 

But  is  it  indeed  to  be  always  thus  ?  Is  purity 
to  be  continually  endangered ;  and  are  the  efforts 
of  virtue  unattended  by  reward?  Surely  not. 
"  As  the  Alps  are  the  sources  of  the  Rhine,  the 
Rhone,  and  the  Po ;  and  though  those  mountains 
are  for  the  most  part  clad  in  eternal  sterility, 
they  make  of  Italy  and  France  two  most  de- 
lightful gardens."  Thus,  mental  persecution, 
though  it  frowns  upon  its  victims,  endows  their 
minds  with  firmness  to  resist,  and  dispositions  to 
benefit  from  the  threatened  calamity.  In  the 
language  of  the  eloquent  Bucke,  "  They  resem- 
ble the  cocoa-nut  of  Ceylon.  They  gain  strength 
from  neglect,  and  fecundity  from  exposure. 
By  obstacles,  vigorous  minds  are  stimulated,  not 
conquered.  And  as  botanists,  by  administering 
certain  compositions  to  the  roots  of  flowers, 
teach  snow  drops  to  wear  the  colour  of  Ethiops : 
pinks  to  clothe  themselves  in  green :  and  tulips 

No.  X.— 3 


H4 

to  assume  the  tincture  of  green; — the  mindr 
pregnant  with  exalted  precepts,  makes  fortune  at 
length  take  the  forms  and  the  consequences  best 
suited  to  its  will."  To  the  philosophic  mind,  for- 
tified by  Christian  hope,  defamation  of  charac- 
ter, though  a  painful  evil,  is  not  a  permanent 
calamity.  An  inward  sense  of  innocence  shields 
the  heart  from  fear,  and  bids  it  cast  its  hopes 
upon  a  superintending  Providence.  Frequently, 
in  this  world,  justice  has  interfered  in  asserting 
the  claims  of  injured  innocence,  and  lighting  up 
smiles  on  that  countenance  which  had  borne  the 
curse  of  Cain  upon  its  brow. 

I  knew  a  man  who,  conscious  of  his  own  in- 
tegrity, suffered  under  the  heaviest  wrongs  which 
the  tongue  of  defamation  can  inflict.  His  ap- 
peals to  Heaven  were  disbelieved,  and  testimony 
but  served  to  augment  the  weight  of  suspicion 
against  him.  He  heard  the  dungeon  of  public 
sentiment  closing  upon  him,  and  the  hammer 
of  justice  preparing  to  rivet  his  chains.  But 
the  Guardian  of  innocence  dispelled  the  gather- 
ing tempest  by  the  unfolding  of  a  single  event. 
Society  recalled  him  to  her  confidence  and  es- 
teem— he  embraced  his  family  with  the  tear* 


of  grateful  delight;  and  he  lives  to  commemo- 
rate with  his  friends  the  protection  of  an  over- 
ruling Power.  This  circumstance  is  a  token 
to  the  injured  bosom,  of  that  approaching  day, 
when  every  wrong  shall  be  recompensed,  and 
the  ways  of  Providence  clearly  unfolded.  Silence 
your  complaints,  ye  persecuted  sufferers !  the  hour 
of  your  triumph  dawns :  your  harp  shall  one  day 
resound  with  the  melodies  of  victory.  Heaven 
shall  acknowledge  you  among  her  honourable 
sons — the  voice  of  the  detractor  shall  no  more 
mar  your  peace  where  all  around  is  felicity  and 
glory. 

"  In  quiet  hope  and  patient  faith,  spring's  needful  conflicts 

bear, 
Then  green  shall  be  thy  summer  leaf,  in  skies  more  bright 

and  fair ; 

And  fruitage  of  immortal  worth,  in  autumn's  later  days, 
Shall  on  thy  bending  boughs  be  hung,  to  speak  thy 

Maker's  praise." 


THE    RIVAL,   L.OVERS. 


O,  had  I  known  that  woman's  love 
Had  been  so  hard,  so  ill  to  win, 

I  had  lock'd  my  heart  in  a  case  of  gold, 
And  pinn'd  it  with  a  silver  pin. — HOGG. 


IN  the  state  of  Pennsylvania,  near  the  village 
of  Huntingdon,  there  is  a  wild  tract  of  country, 
consisting  of  rocks,  valleys,  and  mountainous 
passes,  and  extending  several  miles  between  im- 
mense .  barriers  of  limestone,  which  terrify  while 
they  attract  the  observation  of  the  traveller.  A 
narrow  pathway  of  road  intersects  this  dreary  re- 
gion, and  winds,  in  a  singular  serpentine  manner, 
among  frightful  projections,  and  overhanging 
forest  trees,  wherever  the  naturfe  of  the  country 
will  admit  of  a  passage.  There  are  also,  for 
some  leagues  around,  numerous  tall  cliffs, 
of  various  shapes  and  sizes,  which,  from  their 
striking  appearance  and  solemnity,  have  been 
long  known  by  the  name  of  the  Pulpit  rocks.  In 


117 

many  parts  of  the  road,  less  encumbered  with 
brush  and  other  forest  obstacles,  the  eye  can  gaze 
upon  its  windings  through  the  valley — but  in  every 
few  steps  the  whole  is  lost  sight  of  by  a  sudden 
bend,  which  appears  to  branch  off  in  a  precisely 
opposite  direction.  About  the  centre  of  this  so- 
litude stands  the  trunk  of  an  aged  tree,  gigantic 
in  figure  and  height;  and  having  two  scathed 
branches  reaching  like  arms  on  either  side,  it 
presents  the  appearance  of  a  huge  giant,  lording 
it  over  the  domains  of  his  dark  and  barren  em- 
pire. As  one  approaches  this  forest  monument, 
the  path  becomes  so  crooked  and  devious  that  it 
sometimes  appears  to  cause  the  traveller  to  re- 
cede ;  and  at  others,  to  make  surprising  advances 
in  his  journey.  Now,  the  withered  trunk  is  im- 
mediately on  his  right  hand — then,  it  alters  its 
posture  to  the  left,  and  now  it  seemingly  moves 
nearer  to  greet  his  approach.  Another  change 
of  position  will  bring  it  in  the  rear, — and  then 
again  it  will  be  seen  in  full  view  in  front,  until  it 
becomes  hidden  for  a  while  by  the  impediments  of 
the  road.  A  blanket  has  been  wrapped  round 
the  top,  by  some  droll  hand,  to  represent  a  head; 
and  so  phosphoric  are  the  decayed  trunk  and 
limb,'?,  that,  of  a  dark  night,  the  whole  appears 


118 

like  a  fiery  apparition,  ready  to  fall  upon  those 
who  have  the  temerity  to  pass  it.  Few  persons 
have  the  hardihood  to  venture  upon  so  comfort- 
less a  region,  after  night  has  set  in;  and  since 
many  strange  stories  have  been  told  of  this 
tree,  many  consider  it  an  evidence  of  resolution 
to  visit  it  in  the  day-time,  although  nothing  is 
seen  or  heard  but  the  usual  sights  and  noises  of 
nature. 

But  love,  it  is  said,  can  conquer  all  difficulties; 
and,  with  a  beloved  object  in  view,  can  fight  its 
way  through  goblins  and  giants  to  arrive  at  the 
object  of  its  desires.  Be  that  'as  it  may,  fear  is 
often  a  powerful  drawback  to  the  success  of  the 
inclinations ;  and  they  who  set  out  the  most  va- 
liantly in  the  attainment  of  victory,  have  been 
known  to  surrender  at  discretion  whenever  the 
terrors  of  the  battle  commenced. 

Not  far  from  the  place  before  mentioned,  lived 
a  bonny  old  farmer,  whose  only  wealth  consisted 
in  three  hundred  acres  of  the  richest  land,  and  a 
charming  daughter,  who,  it  is  said,  was  the 
finest  fruit  which  had  ever  been  raised  on  hi* 
farm.  AH  that  the  old  widower  cared  about  was. 


the  cultivation  of  his  grounds,  and  the  prepara- 
tion of  his  produce  for  market ;  and  Miss  Jemi- 
ma had  all  the  management  of  the  in-door  con- 
cerns, even  to  the  polishing  the  brass  rods  upon  * 
the  stairs.  In  truth,  she  was  an  excellent  house- 
keeper, and  was  not  brought  up  merely  to  dress, 
flirt  about,  and  spend  the  hard-earned  gains 
of  her  father.  But  Jemima  was  handsome,  and 
she  knew  it ;  and,  as  is  the  case  with  young  la- 
dies whom  nature  so  endows,  was  by  no  means 
determined  to  spend  her  days  in  the  bonds  of  sin- 
gle life,  when  she  might  become  the  happy  wife 
of  an  affectionate  husband.  She  had  determined 
to  give  her  hand  to  no  one  but  a  soldier,  as  she 
had  loved,  from  her  childhood,  to  read  of  military 
achievements  ;  and  her  little  heart  never  fluttered 
more  than  when  she  came  in  contact  with  a  suit 
of  regimentals.  Now  she  had  grown  to  woman's 
estate,  her  head  ran  upon  nothing  else  than  the 

sound  of  the  drum  and  the  fife ;  and  she  often 

•* 
woke  from  a  dream,  in  which  she  was  binding  up 

her  husband's  wounds,  and  listening  to  the  shouts 
of  victory  in  some  splendid  triumph  which  he 
had  achieved.  As  there  is  no  accounting  for 
tastes,  so  there  is  no  remedy  but  submission  when 
the  ruling  passion  is  supreme ;  and  Miss  Jemima 


12U 

had  read  too  much  of  the  military  character,  in 
novels,  to  listen  to  the  warnings  and  counsels  of 
her  father.  There  was  a  young  farmer,  by  the 
"  name  of  Peters,  that  had  long  solicited  her  hand. 
He  really  loved  her ;  but  he  was  too  plain  and 
unsophisticated  for  our  young  heroine,  who 
dreamed  of  nothing  else  but  being  lady  to  a  ge- 
neral. 'Peters  visited  at  her  father's  house  al- 
most every  night :  he  knew  that  jier  parent  se- 
cretly desired  the  match ;  for  Peters  was  a  fore- 
handed man — was  rather  handsome  and  agreea- 
ble, and  of  all  men  in  the  world  was  most  likely 
to  make  Miss  Jemima  happy.  But  "  those  whom 
you  are  to  have,  you  will  have,"  thought  the  rosy- 
faced  damsel ;  and  if  I  am  destined  to  be  the 
wife  of  an  officer,  why  should  I  marry  Harry 
Peters  ?  As  the  inclinations  generally  direct  to 
the  course  of  conduct  we  pursue,  so  we  are 
weakly  apt  to  suppose  that  to  be  our  destiny 
which  is  only  the  result  of  our  wishes,  and  which 
is  solely  brought  about  by  our  own  agency. 
It  so  happened,  that  she  became  acquainted 
with  two  gay,  young  officers,  who  were  tra- 
velling on  to  join  their  garrison  at  the  south. 
One  of  them  became  remarkably  smitten  by  the 
charms  of  her  person  and  m  ind,  and  actually 


made  her  a  promise  of  marriage  ;  proposing,  thai 
in  case  of  her  father's  refusal,  she  should  elope 
with  him  immediately  to  the  army. 

Nothing  was  more  abhorrent  to  the  farmer's 
feelings,  than  to  marry  his  daughter  to  a  soldier ; 
and  he  accordingly  expostulated  with  her  on 
the  subject,  representing  him  to  be  a  home- 
less wanderer,  and  incapable  of  respectably 
supporting  her.  But  the  mind  can  seldom  en- 
dure to  be  crossed  in  its  favourite  pursuit ;  and 
more  particularly  so  in  love  than  in  any  other 
passion ;  and  the  thwarted  child  always  regards 
opposition  as  rebellion  against  his  happiness,  and 
like  the  resisted  flame,  his  affection  will  always 
burn  the  brighter,  in  proportion  to  the  violence 
that  checks  it.  How  seldom  is  a  parent's  pure 
motive  regarded !  How  little  do  we  consider, 
that  they  who  oppose  our  wishes  are  the  dear 
beings  who  gave  us  existence,  and  whose  life 
is  wrapped  up  in  rendering  their  offspring  happy ! 
It  is  only  when  filial  tears  are  streaming  upon  a 
parent's  sod,  that  we  feel  the  burning  love  which 
dictated  their  opposition ;  and  although  they  were 
mistaken  as  to  the  consequences  of  our  conduct, 

No. 


122 

we  love  and  reverence  the  hearts  which  were  so 
alive  to  our  welfare. 

The  faithful  Peters  became  alarmed;  since 
he  thought  that  he  had  real  occasion  to  appre- 
hend the  loss  of  his  Jemima.  But  gifted  with 
an  uncommon  degree  of  natural  shrewdness,  he 
suspected  that  there  was  something  wrong  about 
the  soldier;  for  he  had  remarked  a  guilty  sort  of 
reserve  in  his  visits  to  the  house,  and  an  undue 
familiarity  with  Jemima,  to  which  his  short  ac- 
quaintance was  little  entitled.  Although  he  sin- 
cerely loved  her,  he  felt  that  he  could  freely  re- 
sign her  to  an  honourable  man  of  her  choice ; 
but  he  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  seeing  her 
united  to  one  of  dissimilar  dispositions  and 
views,  who  should  win  her  affections  by  unworthy 
means,  and  insure  her  a  miserable  life.  Ho  was 
almost  persuaded  too,  that  Jemima  loved  him ;  for 
they  had  been  long  acquainted,  and  she  had  even 
hinted  as  much ;  but  he  ascribed  her  conduct  to 
romantic  notions  she  had  imbibed,  believing,  that 
convinced  of  her  mistake,  she  would  prefer  him 
to  any  other  man.  While  musing  on  the  subject 
one  evening,  near  her  father's  garden,  he  over- 
heard the  officer  making  the  proposals  pre- 


viously  referred  to ;  and  he  immediately  commu- 
nicated them  to  the  farmer.  Exasperated  to  the 
highest  pitch,  they  determined  to  punish  the  per- 
fidious soldier,  and  do  it  in  such  a  way  as  would 
effectually  cure  Jemima  of  her  passion.  They 
were  of  opinion,  that  if  she  could  be  persuaded 
of  the  cowardice  of  the  officer,  and  that  her  at- 
tachment was  only  the  chimera  of  a  heated  ima- 
gination, she  would  despise  her  own  folly ;  and 
that,  could  she  at  the  same  time  feel  assured  of 
the  worth  of  her  real  lover,  she  would  confess  at 
once  his  superiority  to  the  other.  Throughout 
the  day,  the  farmer  and  Peters  were  apparently 
very  busy;  and  the  next  morning  the  officer 
came  to  demand  the  consent  of  the  former  to 
a  marriage  with  his  daughter.  The  farmer  af- 
fected considerable  surprise ; — but  after  mature 
deliberation  replied,  that  he  had  no  objection  to 
consign  his  daughter's  hand  to  that  of  a  really 
brave  soldier ;  and  that  if  he  were  truly  such  as 
his  profession  denoted,  he  would  willingly  give 
his  consent  to  their  union.  "  Name  your  price, 
sir !"  exclaimed  the  eager  champion  of  Mars, — 
"  What  feat  of  valour  shall  I  perform  to  entitle  me 
to  your  confidence  ?  Shall  I  challenge  the  Go- 
vernor of  your  state,  or  shall  I  bring  you  the 


124 

scalps  of  fifty  Indians,  as  a  proof  of  my  intre- 
pidity ?  Your  charming  daughter  is  worth  every 
sacrifice : — and  were  my  life  at  stake,  I  would 
not  be  backward  in  presenting  it !"  "  You  are  a 
brave  champion,  no  doubt,  my  worthy  friend," 
returned  the  farmer ;  "  but  I  care  not  a  snap  for 
the  Governor,  and  less  than  that  for  every  scalp 
you  might  bring  me :  I  have  an  enemy  of  more 
redoubtable  courage  than  these ;  and  if  you  can 
but  conquer  him,— rdoubt  not  of  my  willing- 
ness to  serve  you."  "  Your  words  shall  be  com- 
mands," replied  the  soldier  hastily;  "  Speak  !  let 
me  know  my  errand !"  "  You  must  know,  then, 
heroic  sir,"  resumed  the  other,  "  that  our  neigh- 
bourhood is  haunted  by  a  magician,  or  something 
of  that  nature,  who  inhabits  a  hollow  tree  in  the 
precincts  of  yonder  forest.  After  dark  it  is  more 
than  worth  our  lives,  and  a  span  of  horses,  to 
pass  that  place  in  safety.  Sometimes,  the  appari- 
tion is  like  a  body  of  fire,  and  reaches  out  to  grasp 
us  in  his  clutches.  At  others,  he  assumes  the 
appearance  of  a  venerable  old  man,  to  cheat  us 
to  approach  him.  But  more  frequently  he  as- 
sumes the  dress  and  manners  of  a  soldier, — and 
then  wo  to  him  that  comes  within  the  reach  of 
his  gun !"  "  Mere  stuff!"  said  the  officer:  "  think 


125 

you  that  I  fear,  my  friend,  such  old  woman's 
tales  ? — send  me  not  to  combat  with  phantoms, 
which  live  only  in  the  brain ;  but  give  me  sub- 
stantial flesh  and  blood  to  afford  you  proof  of 
my  valour."  "  Fear  not,  but  you  will  have  enough 
of  that,  young  man;  for  those  very  phantoms 
often  fight  like  tigers :  so  you  are  apprised  of  my 
terms ;  and  he  who  will  not  hazard  a  battle  with 
the  demon  of  the  forest,  shall  be  no  son-in-law  of 
mine,  I  promise  you !"  The  husbandman  turned 
upon  his  heel,  but  the  applicant  of  Venus  was 
softened  into  compliance.  "  I  accept  your  terms, 
sir,"  said  the  soldier,  smiling ;  "  and  since  I 
have  the  choice  of  my  weapons,  and  my  reward, 
I  rejoice  that  Jemima  is  mine."  "  Hold  a  while  I" 
said  the  farmer ;  "  the  demon,  if  conqueror,  shall 
decide  your  refusal ;  but  if  you  triumph  over  him, 
or  come  away  unwounded  from  the  field,  you  shall 
realize  your  wishes  in  marrying  Jemima."  "  With 
all  my  heart,"  said  the  undaunted  hero :  "  Name 
your  time  and  place  of  my  attacking  this  enemy !" 

It  was  arranged  that  our  officer  should  arm 
himself  cap-a-pie  on  the  following  night,  and  be 
conducted  by  the  farmer  to  the  borders  of  the 
enemy's  land,  where  he  should  receive  sufficient 


directions  to  find  the  object  of  his  attack.  Bui 
it  was  the  determination  of  our  lover  to  elope  with 
Jemima  that  very  night ;  and  he  merely  assented 
to  the  farmer's  proposals  to  give  an  honourable 
colour  to  his  conduct,  and  prevent  his  being  re- 
fused farther  access  to  the  house.  Though  he 
had  consented  to  meet  the  farmer  at  midnight, 
he  considered  it  a  better  joke  to  deprive  him  of 
his  daughter ;  and  if  he  could  be  so  fortunate  as 
to  anticipate  him  a  day  beforehand,  he  cared 
little  for  combating  with  disembodied  spirits. 
The  road  to  which  he  had  been  directed,  he  had 
once  travelled  in  the  day-time ;  but  he  had  seen 
nothing  about  it  particularly  terrifying,  and  he 
was  determined  to  hazard  all  its  dangers,  pro- 
vided he  was  certain  of  escaping  with  his  prize. 
But  crafty  as  he  was,  he  was  by  no  means  a 
match  for  our  Pennsylvanian  rustic ;  and  he  had 
to  learn,  as  will  be  found  in  the  sequel,  what  it 
is  to  trifle  with  a  brave  and  honourable  rival. 

Jemima  had  been  apprized  of  all  these  circum- 
stances by  her  anxious  lover,  and  although  she 
was  surprised  at  the  recital  which  had  been 
given  him,  she  declared  that  she  had  no  doubt 
it  was  her  father's  intention  of  proving  his 


127 

sincerity;  and  she  begged  him,  by  all  means, 
to  go,  were  it  only  to  satisfy  the  whim.     They 
could  but  elope  together,  if  the  officer  should 
fail  in  his  attempt ;  and,  at  all  events,  it  were 
better  to  incur  a  trifling  difficulty,  than  risk  the 
danger  and  disgrace  of  flying  from  her  native 
home.     But  fearful  of  losing  her,  the  soldier  pre- 
vailed upon  her  to  lose  no  time  in  accompany- 
ing him  that  very  night,  as  he  was  persuaded 
.  that  it  was  a  fiction  invented  by  her  father  to 
delay  and  prevent  the  execution  of  his  wishes. 
She  promised  to  be  in  readiness,  on  the  back 
avenue,  precisely  at  ten  o'clock ;  where  horses 
were  to  be  stationed  for  their  reception,  as  she 
had  no  doubt  that  it  was  all  a  jest,  and  that  they 
should  soon  return  back  as  merrily  as  they  went. 
It  was  owing  to  the  powerful  solicitations  of  her 
seducer  that  she  consented ;  and  it  was  not  with- 
out many  tears  and  compunctions  of  conscience 
that    she    resolved   upon    accompanying    him. 
Abandoned  by  her  reason  and  delicacy,  what  a 
wretched  slave  is  woman !     Thus,  the  first  false 
step  often  leads  her  to  the  verge  of  a  precipice ; 
and  she,  who  once  trembled  at  the  suspicion  of 
crime,  fearlessly  plunges  into  ruin,  overcome  by 
the  caresses  of  her  deceiver. 


128 

At  the  appointed  hour,  the  horses  were  both 
ready  saddled  in  the  lane,  and  Jemima  and  the  sol- 
dier were  mounted  and  pursuing  their  way  towards 
the  forest.  There  were  two  roads  which  led 
to  the  village  of  Huntingdon ;  one  of  them,  pass- 
ing through  the  dark  mazes  of  the  rocky  defile, 
where  stood  the  well-known  tree,  the  subject  of 
so  much  conversation ;  and  the  other,  winding 
along  the  banks  of  the  Juniata  river,  being  se- 
veral miles  farther  than  the  former.  He  chose 
the  first,  not  only  on  account  of  its  brevity, 
but  because  he  could  more  easily  conceal  him- 
self among  the  thickets  from  the  danger  of  a 
surprise.  The  stars  shone  with  dazzling  bril- 
liancy above  their  heads,  imparting  a  richer  blue 
to  the  celestial  vault,  and  reflecting  their  light 
in  ten  thousand  rays  on  the  ripling  water,  which 
caused  them  to  lengthen  and  vibrate  in  mimic 
crowns  of  glory.  The  gloom  of  the  surrounding 
landscape  was  forgotten  and  shut  out  by  the 
dark  apprehensions  of  distrust,  which  will  always 
harass  the  conscience  when  confident  of  doing 
wrong;  and  they,  who  in  other  circumstances 
might  have  admired  the  sublimity  of  the  grand 
and  silent  night,  listened  only  to  the  quick  bounds 
of  their  steeds  rattling  over  the  uneven  ground. 


129 

and  beginning  to  plunge  into  the  stillness  of  the 
mountain  forest.  It  requires  uncommon  fortitude 
to  hush  down  those  feelings  which  incline  us  to 
virtue,  and  warn  us  to  beware  of  the  conse- 
quences which  attend  upon  guilt.  But  they 
who  once  suffer  themselves  to  be  steeled 
against  their  remonstrances,  are  apt  to  become 
lulled  into  a  stupor  from  which  they  may  never 
wake  till  they  are  the  slaves  of  crime.  Thus  it 
was  with  our  fugitives  :  the  one  was  journeying, 
she  knew  not  whither,  under  the  expectation  of 
returning:  the  other  was  determined  upon  eloping 
with  his  victim.  "Has  father  apprised  you 
of  the  place  ?"  demanded  the  damsel,  in  a  low 
voice.  "Yes,"  said  the  other  in  an  unmean- 
ing tone;  "but  does  Jemima  think  me  such  a 
fool,  as  to  be  standing  sentinel  for  the  dead, 
when  I  have  more  occasion  to  be  afraid  of  the 
living?  Your  father  cannot  surely  expect  that 
I  am  to  be  sent  on  a  fool's  errand ;  and  if  he  does, 
believe  rne,  he  is  confoundedly  mistaken : — But 
know,  my  dove, ;  there  is  more  peril  in  thine  eye 
than  twenty  of  their  swords!'  and  why  should  I  brave 
shadows  who  am  already  possessed  of  the  reward:" 
•;  But  surely,"  said  she,  "  you  mean  to  return  to 
the  cottage,  for  I  have  not  certainly  abandoned 
No.  XI.— 1 


130 

father,  and  why  do  you  reproach  him  with  such 
folly?"  "I  tell  you,  girl,"  he  replied, "  that  you  are 
now  mine,  and  that  all  the  powers  on  earth  can- 
not snatch  you  from  my  embrace  !  What  is  your 
old  father  to  me,  Jemima  ?  have  you  not  vowed 
to  follow  your  soldier  to  the  grave,  and  do  you  re- 
pent of  your  promise?  Bethink  you,  my  fair 
one,  we  are  now  out  of  the  reach  of  witnesses, 
and  enemies,  and  it  is  out  of  your  power  to  re- 
tract!" "But  one "cried  a  deep  hollow 

voice,  from  behind  a  neighbouring  thicket ;  but 
the  words  were  heard  only  by  the  maid ;  for  the 
other  was  too  deeply  occupied  by  his  own  pas- 
sion to  attend  to  any  other  object.  "  What  is 
that?"  demanded  Jemima,  with  a  faint  scream, 
riding  nearer  to  her  companion  on  horseback ; 
"  do  my  ears  deceive  me?  who  spoke  ?"  "  Your- 
self only,  my  trembling  little  vixen,"  replied  the 
lover ;  "  the  echoes  of  this  place,  no  doubt,  are 
in  love  with  your  own  sweet  voice ;  and  they 
are  merely  imitating  its  melodious  accents."  "I 
surely  heard  a  voice !"  repeated  the  terrified  girl. 
"  You  did,"  returned  the  officer  with  a  laugh. 
"  but  it  was  certainly  your  own !" 

They  rode  on  in  silence  until  they  came  within 


131 


the  embrace  of  the  overhanging  cliffs,  and  be* 
gan  to  enter  upon  the  narrow  road  which  was 
so  deeply  involved  in  their  shadow.  The  pulpit 
rocks,  which  were  now  and  then  partially  visible 
through  the  openings,  seemed  dressed  up  in  every 
variety  of  shapes  to  which  the  fancy  can  give 
birth, — sometimes  wearing  the  aspect  of  castles 
and  terraces ;  at  others,  of  huge  animals  loitering 
in  the  forest,  and  as  frequently,  of  tall  giants  min- 
gled together  in  battle.  The  stars,  which  had 
once  shone  so  brightly,  were  completely  hidden 
by  the  mighty  trees  which  lined  the  sides  of  the 
valley ;  and  the  pall  of  night  seemed  more  fear- 
fully spread  over  the  dismal  regions  which  they 
were  entering.  Now  the  heart  of  Jemima  began 
to  relent,  and  she  began  to  feel  the  impropriety 
of  leaving  her  father's  house,  under  the  protection 
of  a  stranger,  and  encountering  the  terrific  dan- 
gers to  which  her  person  was  exposed.  She  re- 
membered the  past  advice  of  her  parent,  and  the 
tender  faithfulness*  of  Peters.  She  concluded  that 
her  father's  story  had  been  mere  pretence ;  or, 
if  true,  that  the  soldier  had  no  intention  of  fulfil- 
ling his  promise,  and  that  now,  perhaps,  she  would 
be  compelled  to  bid  an  eternal  farewell  to  her 
home.  She  would  have  given  worlds,  at  the  mo- 


13.2 

ment,  to  return :  tears  rushed  into  her  eyes  :— 
but  how  difficult  is  it  to  retrace  the  forsaken 
path  of  virtue !  "  Slowly,  Jemima !"  whispered  the 
other ;  "do  you  see  yonder  bright  figure,  with  two 
arms  reaching  out  from  its  sides,  and  a  scowling 
head  that  looks  ready  to  eat  up  the  traveller  ? 
Confound  it!  it  bodes  us  no  good  luck; — and  what 
if  it  prove  the  magician  of  which  your  father  so 
faithfully  warned  me?  But  never  fear,  girl,  I 
have  a  sword  and  a  pair  of  pistols  that  will  make 
the  monster  tremble  if  he  dare  to  attack  us." 
The  soldier  counterfeited  a  laugh ;  but  it  was 
plain  that  he  felt  somewhat  cowardly :  but  how 
could  he  now  retreat  without  marring  the  suc- 
cess of  his  scheme  ?  Jemima's  heart  almost 
sunk  within  her,  as  she  viewed  the  dismal  object, 
which  resembled  a  fiery  giant,  at  a  distance, 
moving  alternately  from  right  to  left,  and  then 
coming  nearer,  as  if  sensible  of  their  approach. 
The  farther  they  advanced,  the  vaster  and  more 
brilliant  it  appeared;  and  its  two  arms,  held  out 
in  the  stiff  attitude  of  defiance,  gave  it  the 
aspect  of  a  supernatural  being,  consuming  all 
that  came  within  its  reach.  The  horses  them- 
selves began  to  partake  of  the  panic — for  they 
.snuffed  the  air,  and  faltered  in  their  pace,  and? 


attempted  to  wheel  about,  as  if  returning.  Just  as 
they  arrived  at  a  bend  of  the  narrow  road,  a  dark 
figure  was  seen  flitting  across  it,  and  in  an  in- 
stant was  lost  sight  of  in  the  mazes  of  the  forest. 
"  Did  you  see  that  ?"  demanded  Jemima  of  the 
officer ;  "  had  we  not  better  return,  than  face  the 
dangers  that  menace  us  ?  there  is  no  doubt  but 
that  enemies  are  pursuing  us,  and  who  knows 
whether  there  be  not  truth  in  the  account  which 
father  gave  you  ?"  "  I  care  not  now,"  said  the 
soldier,  looking  suspiciously  round ;  "  the  time  is 
come,  Jemima,  when  you  must  be  mine,  or  perish 
in  this  forest  if  another's.  I  have  hazarded  every 
thing  for  you,  and  no  power  whatever  shall  save 
you  from  my  grasp."  "  But  mine  !" — exclaim- 
ed a  rough,  hollow  voice  near  them ;  but  from 
whence,  it  was  impossible  to  tell.  A  slight  rus- 
tling was  only  heard  among  the  thickets  ;  and  in 
an  instant,  all  was  still.  The  unfortunate  girl 
perceived  that  she  was  indeed  betrayed  by  the 
soldier :  but  it  was  too  late,  she  feared,  to  remedy 
her  imprudence. 

It  was  one  of  those  calm  autumn  nights  when 
the  wind  scarcely  breathed  over  the  woods,  and 
only  the  falling  of  the  withered  leaves  interrupted 


134 

the  monotony  that  prevailed.  The  sky  was  not 
only  obscured  by  floating  clouds  which  defied 
the  penetration  of  the  stars,  but  it  was  also  bar- 
red out  by  the  steep  masses  of  limestone  which 
hemmed  in  the  passes  of  the  valley.  The  steed 
which  Jemima  rode  refused  to  obey  the  guidance 
of  the  reins;  and  unable  to  manage  it,  she 
was  thrown  unexpectedly  from  her  seat,  upon 
a  soft  bed  of  leaves;  but  she  was  too  much 
stunned  by  the  fall  to  cry  aloud  for  help.  Her 
cries,  indeed,  would  have  proved  of  no  avail: 
for  our  hero  was  toa  much  engaged  in  managing 
his  own  animal ;  and  hearing  the  other  bound- 
ing furiously  back,  he  concluded  that  Jemima 
must  have  perished,  and  that  it  was  his  duty  to 
take  care  of  himself.  He  began  to  think  of  his 
past  guilt  in  enticing  her  from  home,  and  his 
cruelty  in  exposing  her  thus  to  perish  in  the 
forest.  But  his  reflections  were  absorbed  by 
the  terrific  monster  of  fire,  which  now  became 
so  alarming  that  his  horse  refused  to  conduct 
him  farther.  He  tried  to  sing  some  cheerful 
ditty,  and  call  upon  his  mistress,  but  his  tongue 
stuck  in  his  throat :  he  endeavoured  to  urge  his 
steed  along,  but  he  became  fierce  and  frantic,  and 
winnowed  so  loud  that  the  very  echoes  caused 


136 

him  to  startle.  He  drew  his  sword,  but  he  was 
scarce  able  to  hold  it :  he  grasped  his  pistols, 
but  was  ignorant  whether  they  were  primed  or 
loaded.  His  hair  almost  stood  up  on  end  as  he 
approached  nearer  to  the  frightful  object,  and 
perceived  a  man  beside  it,  who,  from  his  soldier- 
like appearance,  must,  doubtless,  be  the  magician 
of  which  the  farmer  had  warned  him.  He  snapped 
his  pistol,  but  it  merely  flashed  in  the  pan :  he 
tried  to  wield  his  sword,  but  it  fell  from  his  trem- 
bling hand.  There  was  no  escape  from  the 
enemy  whose  weapon  was  aimed  directly  at 
his  head ;  and,  stunned  b)  the  blow,  our  hero 
was  levelled  from  his  horse.  How  long  he  lay 
there  he  was  unconscious ;  but  at  length  he 
rose  up,  bruised  and  dismantled  like  a  brave 
and  vanquished  warrior,  and  looking  around,  saw 
nothing  but  the  stump  of  an  old  tree  shining  like 
fire,  from  the  phosphorus  that  covered  it ;  but  the 
magician  had  gone.  He  had  sufficient  strength 
to  mount  his  nag,  which  he  found  quietly  grazing 
in  the  road ;  and  after  reflecting  upon  the  past 
as  philosophically  as  possible,  and  concluding 
that  the  blows  which  he  had  received  were  too 
heavy  to  be  supernatural,  he  rapidly  continued 
his  course,  until  he  joined  his  regiment  at  the 
garrison  southward. 


136 

Suffice  it  to  say,  that  Jemima  was  not  carried 
away  by  magic  hands;  for  the  movements  of 
the  lovers  had  been  closely  watched,  and  fol- 
lowed. She  awoke  the  next  morning,  and  per- 
ceiving the  assiduous  Peters  and  her  father  in 
the  room,  she  reflected  upon  the  past  as  the  ef- 
fects of  a  horrible  dream.  She  had  been  tho- 
roughly cured  of  her  romantic  attachment,  and 
always  changed  the  conversation  whenever  it 
touched  upon  that  subject.  Being  soon  con- 
vinced that  Peters  only  could  make  her  happy, 
she  was  not  long  after  married  to  him,  and  be- 
came a  most  exemplary  wife.  Ignorant,  till  the 
day  of  her  death,  of  the  officer's  mishap,  she 
never  even  suspected  that  Peters  rescued  her 
from  the  forest,  and  that  he  was  the  only  magician 
that  haunted  the  Pulpit  Rocks. 


IMMORTALITY   OF  THE   SOUL, 


The  soul  on  earth  is  an  immortal  guest, 

Compell'd  to  starve  at  an  unreal  feast : 

A  spark  that  upward  tends  by  nature's  force, — 

A  .stream  diverted  from  its  parent  source  ; — 

A  drop  dissever'd  from  the  boundless  sea,— - 

A  moment  parted  from  eternity^—- 

A  pilgrim  panting  for  a  rest  to  come, — 

An  exile  anxious  for  his  native  home. — H.  MOKE. 


DISCONSOLATE  by  the  death  of  a  tender  father, 
my  friend  was  walking  alone  one  evening,  buried 
in  deep  reflection  upon  his  loss.  While  gazing 
upon  the  bright  and  silent  stars, — -who  knows, 
thought  he,  whether  my  parent  is  a  resident  of 
one  of  those  pure  orbs,  and  is  now  looking  down 
from  his  happiness  upon  the  sorrows  of  his 
child  ?  Or  may  he  not  cease  to  exist ;  and  may 
not  the  mind,  which  sparkled  in  him,  have  ex- 
pired in  darkness — like  the  fate  of  that  meteor 
which  is  shooting  across  the  heavens?  He 
watched  the  coruscation,  and  regarding  it  as  tho 

No.  XL— 2 


138 

token  of  his  parent's  extinction,  saw  it  glimmer- 
ing and  diminishing  to  a  single  spark.  He  con- 
tinued to  gaze  upon  it,  but  it  still  remained 
fixed;  and  he  began  to  conclude  that  perhaps 
he  was  deceived  by  a  star.  After  much  con- 
sideration, he  perceived  that  it  had  merely  set- 
tled upon  the  bosom  of  a  planet,  and  faded 
away  in  the  light  of  the  latter.  Whatever 
were  his  doubts,  the  soothing  consolation  came 
over  him,  that  thus  it  was  with  his  deceased  fa- 
ther— that  the  "star  of  his  being,"  refined  from  the 
dross  of  mortality,  thus  "  mingled  with  heaven ;" 
and  that  he  shone  there,  "  as  the  brightness  of 
the  firmament,  and  as  the  stars  for  ever  and  ever." 
He  returned  home  fully  impressed  by  the  belief  of 
the  soul's  immortality ;  and,  although  taught  by 
so  trivial  an  incident,  it  will  follow  Mm  to  that 
closing  hour,  when  his  "  mortality  shall  be  swal- 
lowed up  of  life." 

Who  can  be  a  skeptic  to  his  own  immortality? 
Is  the  doctrine  contrary  to  reason,  or  beyond  the 
power  of  Omnipotence  to  establish  ?  Is  it  more 
difficult  to  believe,  than  ten  thousand  mysteries 
around  us,  to  which,  though  incomprehensible, 
we  subscribe  our  faith  ?  Do  we  place  implicit 


139 

confidence  in  the  revolution  of  myriads  of  worlds 
upon  nothing  about  innumerable  suns,  each  inex- 
pressibly larger  and  more  glorious  than  our  own  ? 
Are  we  convinced  of  the  inexplicable  union  of 
mind  with  matter,  and  the  mysterious  and  over- 
powering consequences  which  result  from  the 
combination  ?  Are  we  persuaded  that  there  is  a 
Supreme  Being,  infinitely  perfect,  without  begin- 
ning, or  termination — omnipotent,  omniscient, 
and  omnipresent  ?  Shall  then  our  own  immortality, 
which  is,  to  these  truths,  as  a  taper  compared  with 
the  sun,  stagg.er  our  faith  ?  Is  it  not  a  hope,  ac- 
cordant with  reason,  with  our  notions  of  the  Di- 
vine perfections,  with  the  general  analogy  of  na- 
ture and  philosophy,  with  the  sublimest  views 
and  principles  of  the  most  intelligent  and  pious  ? 
Is  it  not  established  by  a  Volume,  which  purports 
to  have  come  from  Heaven,  and  is  it  not  so  supe- 
rior to  every  human  discovery,  as  to  convict  the 
mind  of  its  celestial  origin  ? 

"  Still  seems  it  strange,  that  thou  should'st  live  for  ever  ? 
Is  it  less  strange,  that  thou  shouldst  live  at  all  ? 
This  is  a  miracle,  and  that  no  more." 

But  what  is  the  soul? — Some  have  thought  it 
a  « light  substance  in  the  shape  of  the  body ;  but 


of  a  nature  so  elastic  and  aerial,  as  to  be  insensi- 
ble of  touch ;  bearing  the  same  relation  to  the 
frame  that  music  does  to  an  instrument,  or  per- 
fume to  the  solid  substance  of  a  flower,"  passing 
from  it  at  death  as  vapour  from  the  earth ;  and, 
though  intangible  and  unseen,  penetrating,  like 
the  electric  element,  the  most   solid  of  bodies. 
Others  suppose  that  it  is  a  principle,  resembling 
gravitation,  or  the  magnetic  fluid  operating  in- 
visibly on  the  senses  of  the  body,  and  being  too 
minute  for  the  powers  of  the  microscope,  con- 
sequently escaping  the  organs  of  vision.     Some 
have  viewed  the  soul  as  possessing  the  nature  of 
angels ;  and  others,  as   being  a  portion  of  the 
Deity.     But  what  philosopher  can  analyze  its 
nature  ?     What  anatomist  discover  its  form  and 
habitation  ?     Like  the  fluids  before  mentioned, 
it  baffles  our  research ;    and,  though    defining, 
perceiving,  and  comprehending  all,  is  itself  unde- 
fined, invisible,  and  unknown.     But  who  would 
suspect  its  reality,  because  it  has  neither  been 
seen,   examined,  or    comprehended?     As   well 
might  we  doubt  the  existence  of  the  wind,  the  in- 
fluence of  gravitation,  or  the  magnetic  fluid ;  and 
as  well  might  the  blind  deny  the  certainty  of 
sight.    The  operations  of  the  soul,  in  like  man- 


141 

ner,  as  clearly  prove  its  existence  ;  and  they  must 
be  blind,  who,  subscribing  to  truths  so  mysterious 
in  nature,  withhold  their  assent  to  facts  so  mani- 
fest in  morals. 

In  common  with  the  animal,  the  soul  of 
man  is  possessed  of  the  faculty  of  sensation,-— 
that  is,  the  power  of  hearing,  and  perceiving  the 
various  objects  of  sense,  and  applying  them  to 
the  wants  and  comforts  of  the  body.  In  distinc- 
tion from  the  brute,  the  human  senses  are  used 
as  the  instruments  of  the  soul,  and  are  operated 
on  entirely  by  the  influence  of  mind.  It  is  not 
the  eye  that  sees ;  for  this,  like  any  other  matter, 
is  incapable  of  vision ;  but  it  is  a  living  principle 
which,  using  the  eye,  as  it  often  does  glasses,, 
reasons  upon  the  size  and  properties  of  objects. 
It  is  not  the  organ  of  hearing  which  is  sensible  of 
sound,  no  more  than  the  trumpet  which  minis- 
ters to  that  purpose ;  but  it  is  the  soul  itself  that 
drinks  in  the  richness  of  music,  and  derives  such 
speechless  pleasure  from  the  skill  of  the  performer. 
It  is  not  the  nerve  of  feeling  that  discloses,  by  a 
touch,,  the  proportions  of  bodies,  since  a  staff 
may  as  well  suffice  as  the  hand ;  but  it  is  the 
spirit  that  forms  a  judgment  of  external  matter. 


142 

and  ascertains  its  bounds,  qualities,  and  dimen- 
sions. Similar  observations  apply  to  the  rest 
of  the  senses,  which  are  merely  the  agents  em* 
ployed  by  the  soul  in  manifesting  and  performing 
her  desires.  Hence  we  infer,  that  our  organs  of 
sense  are  in  no  respects  ourselves,  but  are  en- 
tirely controlled  by  an  independent  principle. 
Were  the  perceptive  power  and  organs  exactly 
alike,  it  would  follow,  that  were  the  latter  de- 
stroyed, the  ideas  of  sense  would  terminate  also ; 
so  that  they  who  had  lost  their  sight  would  cease 
to  have  any  ideas.  But  mental  perceptions  we 
know  are  enjoyed  by  the  blind;  and  in  dreams 
we  are  sure  that  the  perceptive  faculty  is  often 
extremely  vigilant,  while  the  organs  they  make 
use  of  are  entombed  in  a  temporary  oblivion.  If 
the  power  then  that  operates  remains  in  full  force 
after  the  suspension  of  its  organs,  it  is  reasona- 
ble that  it  will  survive  the  shock  of  the  last 
enemy ;  and  as  the  mental  faculty  often  survives 
the  loss  of  many  of  our  corporeal  members,  is  it 
not  just  as  probable  that  it  will  survive  the  wreck 
of  all? 

Contemplate  the  powers  of  the  understanding! 
What  subject  is  too  vast  or  feeble  for  the  Intel- 


143 

lect  to  penetrate?  With  the  smallest  animal- 
cute  that  floats  in  a  drop  of  water,  to  the  mighti- 
est planet  which  is  whirled  through  space,  the 
mental  vision  is  constantly  occupied.  The  plants, 
minerals,  and  properties  of  the  earth,  have  been 
severally  analyzed ;  and  the  history  of  its  animals 
critically  unfolded.  The  atmosphere  has  been 
decomposed — the  very  lightning  drawn  down 
from  heaven, — and  all  nature  taught  to  subserve 
the  interests  of  man.  Not  content  with  ranging 
abroad,  the  soul  attempts  to  ascertain  and  define 
the  nature  of  its  own  powers.  Enlightened  by 
the  gospel,  it  subjects  to  its  controul  the  wills 
and  passions  of  men,  and  improves  itself  and 
others  in  knowledge  and  piety.  It  can  ever  tear 
awaytfhe  dark  curtain  of  the  grave  ;  and,  entering 
heaven  by  faith,  listen  to  the  melody  of  its  angefe. 
Consider  too  the  sublimity  of  the  will !  a  faculty 
empowering  us  in  a  moment  to  resolve  upon  a 
course  repugnant  to  the  senses,  and  in  many 
cases,  at  first  sight,  utterly  impossible :  that  pro- 
duces, by  a  thought,  the  most  astonishing  results, 
—promotes  the  improvement  of  the  intellect,  and 
prepares  the  soul  for  the  enjoyment  of  heaven. 
Witness  also  the  treasures  of  the  memory! — a 
faculty  which  identifies  the  present  with  the  past 


ages  of  the  world :  which  unfolds  to  us,  in  rej 
trospect,  the  remotest  action,  circumstance,  and 
scene,  and  gifts  the  soul  with  a  kind  of  mortal 
omniscience,  shadowing  forth  that  God  who 
knows  the  past,  the  present,  and  the  future.  The 
affections  of  the  heart  also  reposing  on  the  no- 
blest and  purest  of  objects,  command  the  asto- 
nishment of  every  meditating  mind.  Whence 
arises  that  wish  after  immortality,  which  is  never 
satisfied  till  it  rests  in  the  possession  of  Almighty 
God?  These  affections  and  desires  proclaim 
louder  than  language,  that  the  soul  came  from 
God,  and  is  tending  to  him  again.  They  seem 
to  be  a  faint  reminiscence  of  Heaven,  and  a  wish 
of  retasting  its  once  enrapturing  joys.  "  As  no- 
thing in  nature  is  superior  to  man,  so  nothing  in 
man  is  superior  to  mind.  This  glances  over  the 
universe,  as  it  were,  by  magic,  and  plans  in  mo- 
ments what  the  body  executes  in  years.  The 
soul  of  man  truly  surpasses  every  object;  and 
more  difficult,  was  it  to  form,  than  even  the  sun 
itself.  It  is  no  wonder  then,  that  the  secrets  of 
its  elements  baffle  the  ingenuity  and  research  of 
the  best  metaphysicians.  From  Aristotle,  down 
to  Locke  and  Berkeley,  Reid,  and  Stewart, — 
which  of  them  understood  the  nature  of  the  soul?* 


But  what  are  the  most  consolatory  proofs 
which  establish  the  immortality  of  the  soul  ? 
The  most  powerful,  undoubtedly,  is  the  testimony 
of  Scripture.  From  this  fountain  alone  has  ema- 
nated all  the  moral  light  which  we  possess ;  and 
since  there  never  was  a  time  when  man  was 
without  a  revelation,  he  must  have  been  solely 
indebted  to  it  for  all  his  religious  ideas ;  and  this 
is  the  reason  why  the  immortality  of  the  soul  is 
so  decidedly  taught  by  it,  while  all  other  argu- 
ments are  but  the  creatures  of  conjecture.  That 
nature  taught  the  doctrine,  is  the  grossest  ab- 
surdity; as  nature  is  an  effect,  and  not  a  cause  ; 
and,  whether  it  be  an  abstract  term  for  God. 
or  the  light  which  he  originally  imparted;  in 
either  case,  the  doctrine  must  have  sprung  from 
Jehovah,  and  not  from  human,  unassisted  rea- 
son. But  if  by  nature  is  only  meant  the  un- 
taught intellect,  it  follows  that  it  is  incapable  of 
instructing  itself.  The  immortality  of  the  soul, 
consequently,  was  never  taught  by  nature;  for 
nature  can  teach  nothing  without  instruction  from 
Jehovah.  If  the  soul's  immortality  was  disco- 
vered by  itself,  why  has  it  not  learned  too  the 
nature  of  its  own  existence,  and  the  manner  of 
its  union  with  this  tabernacle  of  clay  ?  Though 

No.  XL— 3 


philosophers  have  written  several  thousands  of 
years,  why  know  they  still  as  little  of  its  secrets, 
and  why  should  a  truth,  the  offspring  of  human 
genius,  still  linger  at  the  portal,  when  it  should 
have  advanced  long  ago  with  the  sciences  up 
the  temple  of  improvement  ?  If  this  truth  were 
discovered,  why  were  not,  also,  the  mysteries 
of  mind?  and  like  discovering  the  source  of 
some  mighty  river,  why  have  we  not  arrived 
at  the  source  of  its  existence,  and  been  enabled 
to  drink  of  those  pure  fountain  streams  which 
are  now  so  hidden  from  the  view  ?  The  scrip- 
tures alone  then  have  revealed  this  doctrine;  and 
if  maintained  by  the  pagan  world,  as  is  currently 
reported,  it  must  arise  from  tradition — by  the 
dispersion  of  Noah's  sons.  That  patriarch's  fa- 
mily must  have  been  acquainted  with  it  long 
after  their  departure  from  the  ark ;  and  although 
numbers  of  them  apostatized  from  the  faith  of 
their  ancestor,  and  became  polluted  by  idolatry; 
still  they  never  entirely  lost  sight  of  many  im- 
portant truths,  among  which  may  be  ranked  the 

immortality  of  the  soul. 

i>  • .  -,,j.'^ .* 

The  consent  of  all  nations,  civilized  and  barba- 
rous, is   a  powerful  proof  of  the  soul's  immor- 


147 

tality.  Composed  of  nine  hundred  millions  of 
inhabitants,  the  Jewish,  Pagan,  Mahometan,  and 
Christian  world,  though  differing  widely  on  every 
other  subject,  concur  unanimously  in  this,  that 
whatever  be  the  shape  the  Deity  assumes,  and 
of  whatever  materials  spirit  may  be  composed, 
the  mind  of  man  is  certainly  immortal.  It  was 
maintained  by  the  Romans,  Egyptians,  and 
Greeks,  in  the  hieroglyphics  of  butterflies,  and 
devices  upon  gems,  statues,  and  vases.  It  is 
confessed  by  the  Persians,  who  leave  part  of 
their  graves  open  for  the  resurrection  of  the 
body: — by  the  Laplanders,  who  enclose  a  purse 
of  money  in  the  coffins  of  the  dead :< — by  the 
Tartars,  and  North  American  Indians,  in  burying 
their  dead  upright,  to  be  prepared  for  resurrec- 
tion; and  by  the  Hindoo  widow,  who  consumes 
herself  on  the  funeral  pile  to  onjoy  eternal  life 
with  her  husband.  The  same  truth  is  believed 
by  the  Hottentots,  the  Chinese,  and  the  natives 
of  the  Pelew  islands,  all  differing,  it  is  true,  in  the 
manner  of  the  soul's  existence,  but  essentially 
uniting  in  the  fact  of  its  immortality.  This  agree- 
ment of  all  nations  shows  the  common  origin 
whence  it  was  derived ;  for  on  what  but  moral 
topics  exists  there  such  a  wide  and  universal  haj> 


148 

mony  ?  It  proves  that  mankind  are  one  and  the 
same  family ;  and  though  scattered  and  divided 
like  the  children  of  a  common  father,  though  un- 
dergoing all  the  vicissitudes  and  suiferings  of 
humanity,  they  are  solaced  and  supported  by  the 
same  precious  hope  of  meeting  and  living  for 
ever — one  united  and  happy  band. 

The  progressive  tendency  of  mind  towards 
perfection  is  one  of  the  strongest  arguments 
which  reason  can  adopt.  Every  thing  attains  its 
highest  glory  here  except  the  soul  of  man.  Ve- 
getation rises  no  higher  in  the  scale  of  excellence. 
The  fowls  of  the  air  still  build  their  nests  as  they 
did  centuries  ago.  The -brute  creation  has  al- 
ways evinced  the  same  sagacity  and  habits,  and  at- 
tained the  loftiest  powers  of  which  it  is  susceptible. 
The  human  soul,  on  the  contrary,  has  been  dis- 
tinguished for  improvement.  Whether  we  con- 
sider the  rise  of  man  from  barbarism  to  the 
most  polished  refinement, — from  the  darkest  ig- 
norance to  the  profoundest  knowledge, — from 
the  vilest  depravity  to  the  most  exemplary  piety, 
— he  has  ever  exhibited  progress  towards  perfec- 
tion. What  were  Greece  and  Rome  before  the 
days  of  Romulus  and  Homer  ?  What  was  civil- 


149 

ized  Europe  before  the  conquesfof  Julius  Caesar? 
and  what  was  America  previous  to  Columbus, 
or  even  for  a  less  space  than  one  hundred  years 
ago  ?  The  history  of  mind  demonstrates! that 
its  conquests  have  been  advancing.  Having 
moved  six  thousand  years  in  the  road  of  mental 
labour,  we  still  feel  the  poverty  of  what  we  know, 
and  are  continually  pressing  forward  to  the  dis- 
covery of  new  wonders.  Such  will  ever  be  the 
tendency  of  mind.  All  the  wealth  of  earth,  all 
the  wisdom  of  ages,  and  all  the  discoveries  of 
^genius,  will  never  cloy  the  curiosity — will  never 
suspend  the  exertions  of  the  inquisitive  soul.  It 
is  panting  for  a  state  when  it  shall  realize  with 
God  an  everlasting  rest,  and  the  perfection  of 
those  faculties  which  it  now  feels  obstructed ; 
when,  doomed  no  longer  to  a  transitory  being, 
it  shall  exist  for  ever,  vigorous  and  free,  with  no 
obstacle  to  retard  the  advancement  of  its  powers. 

The  immortality  of  the  soul  appears  further 
evident,  from  its  frequently  rising  above  the 
weakness  of  the  body.  Instances  are  recorded, 
not  only  of  premature  genius  discovered  in  chil- 
dren, but  of  lofty  flights  of  intellect  in  the  feeble, 
the  diseased,  the  aged,  and  the  dying.  When 


150 

the  body  is  sinking  under  the  violence  of  disor- 
der, and  unable  to  exert  a  single  faculty  or 
muscle,  why,  let  me  ask,  is  the  mind  often  vigilant, 
collected,  and  powerful  ?  Does  it  not  prove  that 
the  soul  of  man  is  independent  of  the  body,  and 
outliving  the  tenement  which  is  mouldering 
around  it  ?  Cases  may  be  furnished  of  the  mind's 
apparent  decay,  but  these  are  instances  when 
the  bodily  organs  are  so  weakened  and  impaired 
that  the  soul  cannot  act  through  them ;  and,  as 
a  broken  instrument,  stops  the  efforts  of  the  per- 
former; so,  the  diseased  body  will  suspend,  for  a 
season,  the  operations  of  the  soul.  The  eye 
cannot  see,  the  ear  hear,  or  the  hand  feel,  be- 
cause the  vital  circulation  is  impeded  in  its  chan- 
nel :  but  the  reasoning  faculty,  independent  of 
this,  may  be  all  the  while  regaling  itself  in  the 
discoveries  of  divine  wisdom,  and  urging  its 
flight  above  the  regions  of  the  stars.  If  then 
the  mind  expire  with  the  body,  why  is  it  often 
active  when  the  other  is  exhausted  ?  Why  towers 
it  frequently  above  the  weakness  of  the  frame, 
retaining  to  the  very  last  the  full  exertion  of  its 
powers  ?  Why  does  it  repeatedly  evidence,  at 
the  very  eve  of  its  departure,  brighter  scintilla- 
tions of  thought  than  it  ever  did  in  its  healthiest 


151 

career?  It  must  be,  that  the  mind,  undisturbed 
by  the  calamity  which  affects  its  partner,  is  be- 
coming liberated  from  its  bonds,  and  better  capa- 
ble of  exercise.  It  seems  hovering  like  an  angel 
within  the  walls  of  its  prison-house;  and  linger- 
ing, amid  the  ruins  of  its  clay-cold  tenement,  to 
assure  weeping  survivors  of  the  truth  of  its  im- 
mortality. 

The  aspiration  of  the  soul  after  something 
greater  and  better  than*  itself,  is  a  demonstra- 
tion of  its  immortality.  As  all  our  ideas  are 
the  result  of  information,  whence  could  so 
sublime  a  conception  as  this  have  germi- 
nated, unless  from  a  Divine  communication 
previously  imparted  to  the  mind  ?  That  the  hope 
of  immortality  could  have  been  the  fruit  of  the 
untutored  intellect,  is  a  supposition  irreconcilea- 
ble  with  the  laborious  training  it  must  submit  to, 
before  it  comprehends  the  simplest  principles  of 
science.  As  this  anticipation  must  spring  from 
a  divine  source,  it  carries  with  it  its  own  irresisti- 
ble evidence.  This  comports  with  sound  phi- 
losophy. If  man  is  capable  of  conceiving  a  more 
glorious  state  than  the  present,  which  he  is  never 
to  realize,  is  it  not  an  imputation  on  the  wisdom 


152 

of  the  Supreme  Being  in  creating  him  less  perfect 
than  his  fancy  can  imagine,  and  inspiring  him 
with  hopes  which  were  never  to  be  gratified  ?  If 
he  can  picture  to  himself  lovelier  scenes,  and 
more  delicious  enjoyments  than  this  world  can 
yield  him,  there  must  be  a  prototype  to  produce 
the  image  on  his  mind ;  as  the  shadow  pre-sup- 
poses  a  substance,  and  light,  the  existence  of  a 
luminous  body.  Could  a  bliss  be  conceived  of 
in  heaven  more  transporting  than  its  own,  there 
would  still  be  another  heaven  beyond :  and  hence 
we  infer,  that  as  the  imagination  does  not  realize 
the  perfection  which  it  covets  here ;  as  it  looks 
forward  to  "  a  new  heaven — a  new  earth,"  and 
immortal  glory,  they  must  consequently  exist,  to 
account  for  its  aspirations,  and  reconcile  the  at- 
tributes of  the  Divinity. 

"  Shall  I  be  left  abandon'd  in  the  dust, 

When  fate  relenting,  lets  the  flow'rs  revive  ? 
Shall  nature's  voice,  to  man  alone  unjust, 

Bid  him,  though  doom'd  to  perish,  hope  to  live  ? 
Is  it  for  this,  fair  virtue  oft  must  strive, 

With  disappointment,  penury,  and  pain  ? 
No !  heaven's  immortal  spring  shall  yet  arrive, 

And  man's  majestic  beauty  bloom  again, 
Bright,  through  the  eternal  year  of  love's  triumphant 
reign." 


That  mind  is   immortal,  may  be  further  in- 
ferred, from  its  frequently  surviving  the  loss  of  its 
bodily  members.     We  may  be  deprived  of  our 
limbs,  and  yet  the  intellect  will  continue  unim- 
paired ;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  the  body  may 
remain  in  cloudless  vigour,  while  the  intellect  IF 
broken  down  with  infirmity.     Cases  are  on  re- 
cord, of  persons,  whose  spinal  marrow  had  been 
injured,  who  not  only  survived  the  shock,  but  pre- 
served their  reason  entire.     Even  the  brain,  often 
considered  as  the  thinking  faculty,  may  receive 
considerable  detriment  without  diminishing  in  the 
least  the  powers  of  intelligence.     It  has  been 
totally  diseased,  and  large  portions  of  it  have 
been  repeatedly  removed,  without  any  mental 
injury  following.     The  heart  also  has  not  only 
been  disordered,  but  its  functions  have  been  so 
impeded,  as  almost   to  endanger  vitality;   yet 
the  intellectual  faculty  has  still  maintained  its 
energy;   and  so  also   the  blood,  supposed   by 
many  to  be  the  seat  of  life,  has  been  almost 
drained  from  the  arteries,  but  yet  the  powers  of 
the  soul  have  still  continued  unshaken.     Does  not 
this  establish,  beyond  a  doubt,  that  mind  is  inde* 
pendent  of  the  body  ?  and,  although  compelled 
to  use  it  for  the  purposes  of  animal  life,  is,  in  no 
-  No.  XI.— 4 


154 

respect,  indebted  to  it  for  intellectual  vigour? 
To  search  then  for  the  soul  amid  the  bodily  mem- 
bers, is  like  seeking  the  master  among  his  slaves, 
— like  finding  the  musician  among  the  chords 
swept  over  by  his  hand.  Must  we  not  conclude, 
that  the  mind,  which  is  so  unaffected  by  the  loss 
of  its  organs,  is  consequently  unliable  to  dissolu- 
tion, and  must  no  doubt  survive  the  loss  of  every 
corporeal  faculty?  It  is  also  a  well-known  fact 
in  physics,  that  the  human  body  changes  its  en- 
tire substance  within  a  very  few  years,  so  that 
every  particle  it  possessed  becomes  altogether 
new.  "  An  absorbent  system  exists  in  the  brain," 
according  to  the  ingenious  Mr.  Rennell,  "  by 
which,  in  process  of  time,  that  organ  with 
the  body  undergoes  a  total  change.  Now,  if  the 
particles  of  the  brain  were  capable  of  conscious- 
ness, consciousness  would  cease  upon  their  re- 
moval; and  personal  identity  would  be  destroyed. 
Personal  identity  depends  on  consciousness ;  and, 
as  that  consciousness  continues,  it  must  be  some- 
thing which  does  not  fluctuate  and  change ;  some- 
thing extraneous  to  the  brain.  The  body,  like 
the  Paralus  of  Athens,  may,  by  the  deposition  of 
new  particles  similar  to  those  absorbed,  preserve 
an  appearance  of  identity,  when  no  one  particla 


remains  unaltered.  But  there  is  no  appearance 
of  consciousness :  in  consciousness  the  individu- 
ality must  be  real;  and  this,  seeing  the  brain 
transmutates,  can  only  be  by  the  existence  of  an 
immaterial  essence  which  never  changes."  From 
all  this  it  is  concluded,  that  although  the  body 
changes,  yet  the  soul  itself  is  always  the  same  indi- 
vidual being.  The  memory,  volition,  understand- 
ing, and  affections,  are  the  same  it  possessed 
in  childhood ;  and  amid  all  the  revolutions  which 
the  frame  has  undergone,  it  is  sensible  of  no 
change  but  the  change  of  improvement.  Is  it 
not  more  than  probable,  that  as  it  outlives  the 
mutations  of  the  body,  it  will  also  survive  the 
last  change  of  death,  and  that  it  is  consequently 
immaterial,  imperishable,  and  immortal  ? 

We  shall  arrive  at  similar  conclusions,  if  we 
contemp'ate  the  distinctiveness  of  mind  from 
matter.  Lunacy,  for  instance,  owes  not  its  origin 
to  a  malformation  of  the  brain,  so  much  as  to 
various  moral  causes,  which  rather  require  a 
moral  than  physical  treatment;  and  even  where 
its  structure  is  disturbed,  it  may  be  regarded  more 
as  the  consequence,  than  the  cause  of  the  dis- 
ease. In  the  indulgence  of  the  passions,  too. 


auger  precedes  the  hastened  circulation ;  sorrow, 
tears  ,•  and  joy,  the  indulgence  of  laughter. 
Something  superior  to  the  senses  must  regulate 
the  movements  of  the  body;  for  some  of  those 
may  be  affected  by  paralysis,  and  yet  the  mind 
itself  may  remain  unaffected.  A  few  sounds 
on  the  tympanum  of  the  ear,  or  a  few  written 
characters  on  paper,  will  make  a  powerful  im- 
pression on  one  person,  which,  observed  by  an- 
other, would  not  produce  the  least  effect.  That 
the  mind  only  regards  the  object,  is  obvious,  when 
we  consider  that  the  eye  cannot  perceive  the 
loveliest  object  of  creation,  the  ear  cannot  at- 
tend to  the  voice  that  accosts  it,  and  the  fra- 
grance of  the  flower  never  invites  the  smell, 
unless  their  notice  be  particularly  aroused.  For 
a  short  time  after  death,  the  bodily  senses  are  as 
entire  as  before  it;  and  it  is  plain,  that  nothing  is 
absent  but  the  living  agent  which  governed  them. 
But  where  is  its  habitation  ?  Every  particle  of 
the  brain,  even  the  pineal  gland,  has  been  de- 
stroyed by  disease,  and  almost  every  portion  of 
the  body  has  been  amputated  and  removed ;  but 
yet  the  seat  of  the  mental  faculty  has  remained 
undetected.  Who  then  does  not  infer  from  the 
distinctiveness  of  mind  from  matter,  that  the 
former  must  for  ever  survive  the  latter  ? 


(57 

To  these  arguments  might  be  added  the  dread 
of  annihilation  indulged  by  the  soul, — its  thirst 
after  fame, — its  consciousness  of  superiority  to 
matter, — its  desire  after  perfection, — its  incapa- 
bility of  extension,  divisibility,  or  space, — the 
fear  of  apparitions,  experienced  by  all  nations, 
the  rudest  as  well  as  the  most  refined ;  and  what 
is  of  deeper  weight  than  many  others,  the  cases 
of  suspended  animation  and  trance — the  pheno- 
menon of  dreaming,  in  which  the  mind  is  wakeful 
and  collected,  while  the  powers  of  the  body  are 
enchained  in  a  temporary  lethargy. 

The  endless  duration  of  the  soul  is  also  cor- 
roborated by  the  general  analogy  of  nature. 
As  matter  is  imperishable,  shall  we  not  conclude 
that  mind  is  so  also  ?  Wood  may  be  reduced 
to  ashes,  but  the  ashes  remain  to  fertilize  the 
earth.  Vegetation  decays,  but  only  to  give  birth 
to  another  race  of  plants.  The  chrysalysis 
bursts  its  narrow  tomb,  and  soars  to  renovated 
existence  in  a  more  glorious  form.  The  animal 
dies,  but  from  its  dust  spring  innumerable  herbs, 
which  enliven  and  sustain  other  tribes  of  animals. 
Even  the  human  frame  mingles  with  the  clod  of 
the  valley,  to  impart  renewed  fertility  to  its  soil. 


158 

The  willow,  which  grows  upon  our  friends'  graves, 
may  receive  part  of  its  nourishment  from  the 
bodies  beneath  it,  and  evidence  the  vigour  it  de- 
rives in  its  leaves,  branches,  and  fruit.  The  bird 
which  feeds  upon  the  latter,  and  carols  over  the 
grave,  may  be  partially  indebted  for  the  sweetness 
of  its  song  to  the  ashes  of  our  friends.  If  then 
not  a  single  particle  of  matter  is  lost  or  annihi- 
lated in  creation,  is  it  possible,  arguing  from  the 
less  to  the  greater,  that  God  will  permit  the  glo- 
rious spirit  to  perish  ?  Shall  the  soul  be  denied 
a  privilege  granted  to  the  cold,  inanimate  dust? 
Shall  matter  exist,  while  "  the  image  of  God"  is 
mouldering  in  the  ground?  Shall  trees,  birds, 
and  animals,  outlive  man  by  centuries,  and  shall 
their  civil  governor  be  limited  to  a  few  transient 
years  ?  Shall  the  proudest  monuments  of  ar- 
chitecture and  of  art  survive,  and  the  illustrious 
minds  that  planned  them  be  swept  away  in  ruin  ? 
Shall  the  churches,  founded  by  St.  Peter,  Timo- 
thy, and  St.  Paul,  still  flourish,  and  do  these  re- 
nowned apostles  exist  no  more  to  witness  the 
fruits  and  triumphs  of  their  labours  ?  No !  "  God 
is  the  God  of  Abraham,  Isaac,  'and  Jacob," 
though  man  is  long  outlived  by  hosts  of  birds, 
animals,  and  plants.  The  illustrious  dead  still 


exist — St.  Peter,  Timothy,  and  St.  Paul,  are 
now  alive  in  heaven ;  and  though  their  bodies 
have  long  ago  decayed,  they  live  unto  God,  cele- 
brating the  conquests  of  His  church,  and  waiting 
till  all  the  redeemed  of  the  earth  shall  have  been 
clothed  upon  with  immortality. 

Who  would  not  rather  be  an  animal  or  plant,  if 
this  mortal  life  is  to  terminate  our  career?  If 
spirit  be  not  immortal,  what  apology  can  there 
be  for  moral  evil?  what  consolation  for  sorrow? 
What  reparation  for  the  wrongs  endured  by 
thousands  ?  Are  we  merely  born  to  view  the  lus- 
tre of  our  own  genius,  and  then  to  sink  forgotten 
and  dishonoured  into  the  grave  ?  Are  we  never 
to  embrace  again  the  dear  offspring  of  our 
bosom, — the  venerable  parents  we  loved, — the 
companion  who  was  the  life  of  our  existence, — 
the  friends  whose  stream  of  happiness  mingled 
with  our  own  ?  Are  we  never  to  wake  from  the 
dream  of  life,  and  experience  that  bliss  which 
;t  eye  hath  not  seen,  ear  heard,  or  hath  it  entered 
into  the  heart  of  man  to  conceive  ?"  Oh  God ! 
Is  there  no  reality  in  these  glorious  prospects  of 
heaven ;  but  does 

Darkness,  death,  and  long  despair, 
Reiffn  in  eternal  silence  there  ? 


It  cannot  be !  The  torch  of  revelation  has  dis- 
pelled the  darkness  which  brooded  over  the  tomb, 
and  lighted  up  the  heart  with  the  hope  of  im- 
mortality. "  The  body  returns  to  the  earth  as  it 
was,  but  the  spirit,  to  God  that  gave  it."  "  For 
we  know  that  if  our  earthly  house  of  this  taber- 
nacle were  dissolved,  we  have  a  building  of  God, 
a  house  not  made  with  hands,  eternal  in  the 
heavens." 

"The  soul,  of  origin  divine, 
God's  glorious  image  freed  from  clay, 
Jn  heav'n's  eternal  sphere  shall  shine 

A  star  of  day. 

The  sun  is  but  a  spark  of  fire, 
A  transient  meteor  in  the  sky  ; 
The  soul  immortal  as  its  sire, 

Shall  never  die,* 


THE    FAITHFUL 


The  brave  young  knight  that  hath  no  lady  love, 
Is  like  a  lamp  unlighted  ;  his  brave  deeds 
And  its  rich  painting  do  seem  then  most  glorious, 
When  the  pure  ray  gleams  through  them. — SCOTT. 


AT  the  beginning  of  the  present  century,  be- 
fore the  funeral  fires  of  war  were  lighted  up  in 
Greece,  modern  Athens  was  the  most  beautiful 
and  flourishing  of  its  towns.  It  contained  about 
12,000  inhabitants,  of  whom  only  a  fifth  were 
Turks,  and  a  large  number  of  foreigners,  who 
were  drawn  together  as  to  a  focus,  not  only  by  its 
antiquities  and  centrality  of  situation,  but  from 
its  fine  exposure  to  the  sea,  and  the  numerous 
islands  which  skirted  the  neighbouring  coast. 
The  few  Turks  inhabiting  it,  by  their  mingling 
so  long  with  its  European  society,  acquired  a 
suavity  and  refinement  unnatural  to  their  nation, 
and  associated  more  upon  a  level  with  the  native 
Greek  inhabitants.  The  traveller  here  felt  him- 
self at  home,  and  enjoyed  higher  privileges  and 

No.  XII.— 1 


162 

comforts  than  many  other  places  afforded :  the 
state  of  society  was  more  refined :  the  intellectual 
powers  were  more  awakened  and  exercised :  the 
endearments  of  domestic  life  were  more  keenly 
relished;  and  the  women,  being  more  accustomed 
to  the  intercourse  of  strangers,  were  less  reserved 
in  their  manners,  and  far  more  intelligent  and 
lovely  than  in  any  other  parts  of  Greece.  Here 
stood  the  proud  temple  of  Theseus,  the  remains 
of  the  parthenon,  the  tower  of  the  winds  adorned 
by  its  admirable  sculpture,  with  many  other  pre- 
cious relics  of  classic  glory,  contributing  to  ren- 
der Athens  not  merely  the  resort  of  the  antiquary 
and  the  scholar,  but  the  illustrious  monument  of 
what  human  genius  can  achieve. 

But  Athens  has  assumed  a  far  different  aspect 
since  the  commencement  of  the  war.  The  torch 
of  the  Ottoman  has  consumed  many  noble  ves- 
tiges of  former  grandeur ;  and  wherever  the  tra- 
veller passes,  it  is  through  bloody  solitudes,  and 
cheerless  ruins ;  and  his  eye  reposes  on  many  a 
village  and  temple  levelled  to  the  ground,  and 
the  standard  of  the  crescent  waving  over  spots 
hallowed  by  the  shadow  of  the  cross.  Athens 
has  been  of  late  years,  with  many  other 


the  scene  of  daring  sieges,  cruel  massacres,  and 
conflagrations ;  and  its  inhabitants  have  suffered 
all  the  horrors  of  expatriation  and  slavery.  Some 
have  sought  refuge  from  the  enemy  among  the 
barren  solitudes  of  Salamis ;  others  have  dwelt 
in  mountain  caverns,  or  rude  huts  constructed  in 
the  wilderness,  by  their  own  feeble  hands,  while 
myriads  have  fallen  victims  to  the  pestilence,  the 
severity  of  foreign  climates,  to  famine,  thirst,  and 
nakedness,  and  what  is  worse,  to  the  withering 
curse  of  despair.*'  But  like  their  own  temple  of 
Theseus,  which  lately  received  the  shock  of  the 
thunderbolt  without  sustaining  the  least  injury ; 
or  like  the*  forest  tree  of  their  own  mountains, 
which  proudly  waves  over  the  desolation  below 
it,  the  suffering  Greeks  have  resisted  the  shock 
of  their  oppressors,  and  they  still  continue  to 
tower  above  the  storm,  which  is  awfully  rolling 
round  their  land.  The  history  of  individual  suf- 
fering would  be  the  history  of  that  of  Greece,  as 
almost  every  family  has  shared  in  the  afflictions 
of  the  war,  and  none  has  been  exempted  by 
reason  of  wealth,  influence,  or  rank.  Owing  to 
the  indignities  and  oppression  inflicted  by  the 
Turks,  the  Greeks  have  acquired  a  ferocity  of 
character  unknown  to  their  illustrious  predeces- 


104 

sors ;  and  who  can  wonder,  if  beholding  the  rum 
of  their  altars,  and  their  homes,  and  themselves 
hunted  down  and  degraded  like  slaves,  or  beasts 
of  prey;  if  feeling  themselves  abandoned  like 
outcasts  by  the  Christian  world,  and  possessed 
of  no  other  resource  but  their  scimetar,  and 
their  God,  they  have  almost  regarded  every  one 
as  an  enemy,  and  been  familiar  with  rapine,  de- 
vastation, and  blood  ?  But  as  the  deepest  dark- 
ness precedes  the  morning,  so  the  bitterest  suf- 
ferings of  this  people  have  ushered  in  the  dawn 
of  their  deliverance.  Christian  nations  are 
awakening  to  assert  their  rights ;  and  a  few 
years,  we  trust,  will  amply  repay  them  for  all 
their  injuries  and  wrongs.  One  case  may  be 
mentioned  among  the  rest,  which,  if  it  prove 
the  magnanimity  and  bravery  of  the  Grecian  cha- 
racter, illustrates  the  brutality  and  injustice  of 
the  Ottomans. 

The  sun  was  going  down  upon  the  gulf  of 
jEgina,  and  clothing,  with  a  soft  mantle  of  light, 
the  distant  ruins  of  Athens,  which  seemed  to  the 
spectator  like  the  present  condition  of  Greece, 
illuminated  in  its  closing  hour  by  the  prospect  of 
deliverance.  A  few  straggling  barks  were  lazily 


165 

floating  down  the  unruffled  tide ;  and  some  dis- 
mantled vessels  of  war  were  moored  near  the 
beach,  being  either  unfit  for  service,  or  waiting 
for  the  summons  of  battle.  Occasional  flocks 
of  crane,  and  the  white  stork,  with  here  and 
there  a  solitary  curlew,  were  fluttering  up  and 
down  the  shore :  swarms  of  various  insects  were 
glittering  in  the  expiring  sunbeams;  and  the  dark 
blue  ocean  was  sweetly  slumbering  under  the  still 
serenity  of  a  breathless  sky,  which  was  almost 
without  a  cloud.  The  neighbouring  islands  of 
^Egina  and  Salamis  appeared  like  fairy  couches 
curtained  by  the  golden  clouds  of  the  west,  for 
the  repose  of  the  Grecian  Gods ;  and  every  ob- 
ject around  wore  that  rich,  magic  mellowness  for 
which  a  classical  landscape  is  so  emphatically 
prized. 

Seemingly  forgetful  of  their  country's  suffer- 
ings, a  party  of  young  people  were  assembled 
upon  the  seashore,  dancing  the  Romaika  to  the 
music  of  violins  and  rustic  pipes.  The  circle 
consisted  of  young  men  and  girls,  who,  holding 
each  other  by  the  hand,  were  following  the  move- 
ments of  a  beautiful  Greek  maid.  At  one  time 
she  would  dart  along,  drawing  her  companions 


16C 

under  their  upraised  hands;  at  another,  she  would 
conduct  them  by  such  intricate  windings,  as 
almost  to  endanger  the  breaking  the  chain  of 
hands  and  the  unity  of  the  measure ;  but  she  inva- 
riably delighted  by  the  gracefulness  of  her  evolu- 
tions, as  well  as  by  the  charms  of  her  person  and 
wit.  Her  light  auburn  hair  was  crowned  with 
flowers ;  a  snow-white  veil  modestly  floated  down 
her  face ;  and  a  rich  embroidered  cestus  encir- 
cled her  slender  form.  Her  face  was  perfectly 
Grecian,  and  her  full  black  eyes  could  not  fail  to 
thrill  the  gazer  with  unutterable  delight.  She 
was  the  daughter  of  two  aged  peasants  who  re- 
sided at  Athens ;  and  though  she  had  numerous 
admirers,  none  had  ever  possessed  her  heart. 
The  horrors  of  war  brooded  over  the  land, — and 
while  her  parents  were  alive,  she  indulged  no  de- 
sire to  connect  herself  with  any  one,  who  might 
possibly  involve  her  in  misfortune.  But  how  can 
woman  indulge  so  unnatural  a  hope  ?  How  can 
she  stifle  a  passion  which  nature's  God  has  sanc- 
tioned and  inspired,  and  refuse  the  protection  of 
one  who  is  dearer  than  father  or  mother?  Though 
the  promise  may  tremble  on  her  lips,  it  has  no 
resting  place  in  the  heart;  and  she  who  avowed 
herself  an  apostate  to  the  worship  of  the  lovely 


167 

goddess,  reverently  bends  before  her  altar  when- 
ever the  all-subduing  passion  takes  possession  of 
her  soul. 

At  this  dance  there  was  a  young  man,  the  son 
of  a  wealthy  Greek  merchant  of  Corinth  who 
had  retired,  at  the  commencement  of  the  war,  to 
the  romantic  cliffs  of  Lepsina,  once  Eleusis,  about 
twelve  miles  from  Athens,  where,  with  a  wife  and 
three  daughters,  he  was  desirous  of  spending 
his  days.  It  was  the  first  time  Demetrius  had 
ever  seen  Mosco  ;  but  the  impression  was  as  in- 
delible as  if  it  had  been  for  ever.  Her  meek  be- 
seeching look, — her  airy  step, — the  pulsation  of 
her  hand,  as  it  faintly  beat  in  his  own  while 
led  by  it  in  the  dance,  had  made  a  conquest  of 
his  heart,  and  he  longed  to  become  acquainted 
with  her.  But  they  who  know  the  strictness  with 
which  Grecian  girls  are  sec'uded  by  their  pa- 
rents, will  be  aware  of  the  difficulties  of  Deme- 
trius. He  followed  her  home  that  evening,  but 
had  not  courage  enough  to  accost  her;  and  so 
delicate  is  true  affection,  that  it  trembles  lest 
even  its  honourable  advances  should  be  construed 
into  rudeness.  Many  a  night,  when  ail  was  still, 
did  he  hover  around  her  cottage,  playing  under 


168 


the  windows  some  melodious  token  of  his  passion. 
But  he  never  could  arrest  her  attention  except 
once,  when  he  caught  her  sweet  countenance  for 
an  instant  through  the  lattice;  but  a  chiding  voice 
was  heard,  and  she  was  gone.  He  returned  to  his 
parents  and  sisters  at  Lepsina,  but  his  heart  still 
hovered  around  the  Athenian  cottage.  Nothing 
can  shake  off  from  a  man  the  indulgence  of  the 
soft  passion  but  the  pursuits  of  active  enterprise; 
and  about  this  time  it  was  currently  reported  that 
a  Turkish  fleet  was  seen  about  the  harbour,  and 
preparing  to  exterminate  the  remaining  strength 
of  Athens.  Every  Greek  capable  of  bearing  arms 
was  immediately  enlisted  in  the  ranks ;  and  De- 
metrius among  the  rest  was  compelled  to  forget 
the  spoils  of  love  for  those  of  a  warlike  camp. 
Many  secret  landings,  it  was  said,  of  the  enemy 
were  effected ;  and  many  outrages  and  violences 
committed  upon  the  inhabitants  around  the  coast; 
but  the  Grecian  army  was  small,  and  unprepared 
for-  the  assault,  and  there  was  no  probability  of  its 
escaping  the  destruction  of  the  assailants.  De- 
metrius was  quartered  near  the  seashore,  not 
far  from  the  cottage  of  Mosco,  and  had  leisure 
to  reflect  upon  the  beloved  being  whom  he  was 
called  upon  to  protect. 


169 

Mosco  was  aware  of  the  passion  of  Deme- 
trius, for  she  was  not  indifferent  to  his  burning 
gaze,  and  the  assiduity  with  which  he  sought, 
and  watched  about  the  cottage.  Woman  may 
seem  blind  to  the  attentions  of  the  other  sex,  but 
not  a  single  motion  escapes  her  penetrating 
glance;  for  there  is  a  kind  of  magical  commu- 
nication between  the  lover  and  the  object,  which, 
like  the  unseen  mirror  reflecting  the  faintest  ray 
of  light,  will  render  it  impossible  for  the  loved  one 
to  be  insensible  to  all  that  passes.  There  is  a 
sort  of  contagiousness  too  about  the  passion,  im- 
parting to  the  beloved  object  a  kindred  feeling 
with  the  lover's ;  and  no  matter  how  estranged 
in  every  other  respect,  they  will  harmonize  when 
conscious  of  a  reciprocal  flame,  as  a  musical 
chord  is  agitated  by  the  vibration  of  its  octave, 

The  Athenians  were  not  only  liable  to  the  as- 
saults of  the  Turkish  inhabitants,  but  they  were 
also  exposed  to  the  incursions  of  their  pirates 
and  coasting  vessels,  whose  sole  object  was  plun- 
der, and  the  capture  of  the  Grecian  women. 
One  dark  night,  several  daring  Turks  landed  be- 
hind a  shadowy  promontory,  and  made  the  best 
of  their  way  to  Athens.  Not  a  soldier  or  living 

No.  XII.~ 2 


170 

creature  intercepted  their  progress,  aiid  they  cau- 
tiously pursued  their  way  to  a  neat  cottage  which 
stood  upon  the  road.  Bursting  the  door,  and 
rushing  into  the  apartment,  they  found  Mosco 
with  her  terrified  parents.  She  shrieked  at  the 
sight  of  the  barbarians,  who  were  proceeding  to 
tie  her  hands,  and  put  the  aged  couple  to  death. 
But  a  violent  rush  was  heard  at  the  door,  and  a 
band  of  Greek  soldiers  appeared.  The  Turks 
were  soon  overcome,  and  the  unfortunate  family 
was  liberated.  But  what  were  the  sensations  of 
Demetrius,  who  was  the  Captain  of  the  party, 
as  he  gazed  upon  the  same  dark  melting  eyes, 
and  listened  to  the  same  entrancing  voice  which 
had  enchained  his  affections  at  the  dance  ?  Mosco 
caught  his  impassioned  look,  and  a  sweet,  grate- 
ful smile  played  upon  her  cheek,  as  delicate  as 
the  mountain  lily.  Her  parents  thanked  him 
again  and  again;  but  how  poor  were  thanks,  com- 
pared with  the  recompense  he  had  obtained  !  His 
eagle  eye  had  watched  over  the  cottage — had 
detected  the  movements  of  the  ruffians,  and  he 
was  determined  to  fall  upon  them.  Mosco  could 
not  but  love  him;  for  if  love  is  enkindled  by  gra- 
titude, how  much  livelier  does  it  burn  when  it  is 
fanned  by  true  attachment !  Every  moment  De~ 


17J 

metrius  could  spare  from  the  army  he  was  with 
her.  The  perilous  state  of  the  country  ren- 
dered it  hazardous  for  them  to  ramble  abroad ; 
and  except  an  occasional  walk  by  moonlight 
around  the  Parthenon,  or  along  the  cool  shores 
of  the  Ilissus,  they  seldom  ventured  from  the  cot- 
tage. Mosco's  parents  highly  approved  of  her 
choice ;  for  he  was  a  brave  and  handsome  sol- 
dier, and  capable  of  making  her  happy.  They 
agreed  to  be  married  on  the  following  week ;  but 
who  can  calculate  upon  the  reverses  of  Provi- 
dence ?  Demetrius  was  encamped  upon  a  vast 
plain  overlooking  the  sea :  hostile  fleets  were 
sailing  on  its  bosom,  and  the  Turks  of  the  Morea 
and  other  neighbouring  towns  were  arraying 
themselves  for  battle.  The  Acropolis  was  but 
feebly  garrisoned  by  a  brave  detachment  of 
Greeks,  and  fresh  supplies  from  Attica  were  mo- 
mentarily expected.  The  frequent  roar  of  can- 
non along  the  distant  shores,  filled  our  lover  with 
the  darkest  apprehensions,  as  he  knew  that  fa- 
vourable winds  might  hasten  on  the  enemy,  who 
would  soon  put  to  flight  his  delicious  dreams  of 
happiness.  He  thought  of  the  desolate  condi- 
tion of  Greece — of  his  father's  family  at  Lep- 
sina.  and  more  especially  of  Mosco  and  her  pa* 


172 

rents,  who,  in  case  of  danger,  would  fall  into  the 
hands  of  the  Ottomans.  His  reflections  were 
disturbed,  by  immediate  orders  to  stand  in  readi- 
ness for  an  assault,  as  aft  army  of  Turks  was 
approaching  from  Livadia.  The  Greeks  were 
attacked  about  midnight ;  but  what  could  their 
bravery  effect  against  superiority  of  force  ?  Tem- 
ples shared  no  better  fate  than  private  dwellings : 
the  shrieks  of  the  women,  the  shouts  of  the 
Turkish  soldiers,  and  the  thunder  of  the  artillery, 
filled  the  soul  of  Demetrius  with  horror.  He 
fought  as  valiantly  as  Leonidas ;  but  the  hope  of 
saving  his  betrothed  bride  excited  him  to  fly, 
if  possible,  to  the  cottage,  and  shield  her  from 
the  fury  of  the  storm.  At  the  hazard  of  his  life, 
he  cleared  his  way  through  heaps  of  bodies,  and 
falling  ruins,  and  struck  off  into  the  main  road  ; 
but  a  detachment  of  Turkish  cavalry  was  block- 
ing up  its  passes.  He  concluded  that  his  best 
plan  was  to  pursue  the  oblique  windings  of  the 
shore,  and  take  advantage  of  a  dark  forest  in 
tracing  his  way  to  the  cottage.  After  many 
circuitous  steps,  he  arrived  at  the  well  known 
spot,  but  all  was  darkness  and  desolation.  He 
entered  the  open  hall-door,  but  no  light  struck 
his  eye — every  thing  was  still  within :  the  furni- 


173 

ture  had  been  all  removed,  and  the  house,  it  was 
plain,  had  been  stripped  of  its  inhabitants.  He 
vainly  called  upon  the  name  of  Mosco  and  her 
parents,  but  he  was  merely  answered  by  the  din 
of  war  from  without,  and  the  hollow  sounds  of 
his  footsteps  as  they  rung  through  the  empty 
rooms.  Searching  through  the  hall,  he  stumbled 
over  something  like  bodies;  and,  by  the  faint 
light  of  the  stars,  he  perceived  that  one  of  them 
was  a  woman,  and  the  agonizing  suspicion  came 
over  him  that  perhaps  it  was  the  body  of  his 
Mosco.  In  wild  despair  he  drew  them  to  the 
door,  and  perceived  that  they  were  Mosco's  pa- 
rents, who,  all  mangled  and  bloody,  must  have 
been  murdered  by  the  Turks.  Satisfied  that 
Mosco  was  not  in  the  house,  he  was  determined 
that  their  bodies  should  not  be  thus  trampled  upon, 
but  should  both  be  committed  to  an  honourable 
grave.  In  the  midst  of  his  reflections,  he  heard 
approaching  footsteps  from  the  highway,  and 
safety  prompted  him  to  take  refuge  in  an  adjoin- 
ing chamber.  The  clatter  of  voices  and  feet 
rang  through  the  house,  and  approached  the  room 
where  Demetrius  was  a  prisoner.  He  lay 
stretched  out,  feigning  himself  dead,  and  even 
felt  the  feet  of  the  soldiers  kicking  him  aside,  a* 


174 

they  were  searching  the  room  for  more  plunder, 
A  moment  more,  and  they  were  gone.  He  raised 
gently  up,  and  still  hearing  steps,  he  deemed  it 
Prudent  to  lie  still ;  but  very  shortly  he  was  en- 
veloped in  a  dense  smoke  that  scarcely  allowed 
him  to  breathe.  He  rushed  through  the  column 
of  vapour,  and  perceived  that  the  cottage  was 
on  fire.  He  escaped  wildly  from  the  place,  and 
betook  himself  to  the  road  that  led  from  the  city. 
The  violence  of  battle  had  died  away ;  the 
morning  was  just  dawning ;  and  among  the  half- 
burnt  houses,  and  tottering  walls,  it  was  mournful 
to  view  emaciated  wretches  expiring  from  their 
wounds, — women  pale  and  haggard,  suckling 
their  half-starved  infants,  or  watching  some 
lifeless  bodies  of  which  the  late  carnage  had  de- 
prived them.  The  cries  of  distress  which  every 
where  assailed  his  ears,  and  the  contemplation 
of  the  smoking  ruins,  caused  Demetrius  to  burst 
into  tears. — "  Oh  God,"  he  cried  out,  "  hast  thou 
no  pity  upon  my  poor  unfortunate  country,  but 
wilt  thou  suffer  our  wives,  our  children,  and  our 
homes,  to  fall  a  prey  to  the  Barbarians  ?  Yes ! 
Greece  is  perishing,  and  there  is  none  that  will 
save  her !"  Thus  cried  the  wretched  man,  as 
be  turned  aside  from  the  main  road,  and  laid 


175 

himself  down  in  a  sheltered  grove  to  rest,  alter 
the  exertions  of  the  night.  The  enemy  had 
abandoned  Athens,  and  only  left  it  sufficient 
strength  to  feel  sensible  of  its  wretchedness; 
and  except  its  Greek  inhabitants,  there  were 
only  a  few  straggling  wretches  watching  behind 
for  plunder.  Demetrius  could  not  sleep :  the  most 
horrible  dreams  disturbed  him :  he  thought  that 
he  had  found  Mosco  weltering  in  her  blood, — arid 
that  he  was  avenging  her  death  upon  her  mur- 
derers. Now  he  was  hurried  through  frightful 
chasms,  and  conflagrations,  and  battles,  and 
then  he  beheld  his  parents  and  sisters  mur- 
dered in  the  solitudes  of  Lepsina.  He  awoke, 
and  determined  to  go  in  quest  of  his  father's  fa- 
mily j  but  looking  around  he  saw  the  counte- 
nances of  several  fierce  Turks,  who  were  holding 
over  him  their  scimetars,  and  commanding  him, 
under  pain  of  death,  immediately  to  follow  them. 
They  conducted  him  more  than  a  mile,  to  a  mo- 
nastic looking  building,  inhabited,  no  doubt,  by 
some  of  the  Turkish  marauders,  who  were  thriving 
on  the  misfortunes  of  Greece.  To  recount  the 
sufferings  he  experienced  would  be  impossible, 
being  doomed  to  the  most  servile  offices  of  do- 
mestic drudgery  by  day,  and  the  incessant  fatigue 


by  night  of  guarding  the  premises  against  the 
attacks  of  his  own  people.  He  endured  the 
severest  reproaches  and  cruelties;  and  kind- 
ness was  promised  only  on  condition  of  his  aban- 
doning the  Greek  cause.  His  only  chance  of 
escaping  was  in  the  absence  of  his  inhuman  mas- 
ters. Regularly  once  a  week  they  left  the  do- 
mains under  the  charge  of  two  of  their  number ; 
their  object  being  to  seize  upon  whatever  booty 
they  could  procure,  and  store  it  away  in  their 
castle.  He  resolved  to  make  his  escape  the 
very  next  opportunity,  and  seek  an  asylum  under 
his  father's  roof.  But  he  knew  not  whether  he 
had  parents  or  sisters,  since  they  might  have 
shared  the  same  fate  with  Mosco  and  her  parents. 
Captives  there  must  have  been  in  the  building 
he  inhabited,  for  he  heard  many  voices  of  la- 
mentation long  after  he  had  retired  to  rest,  and 
he  had  no  doubt  but  there  were  Greek  women 
among  the  number.  One  day,  while  busily  en- 
gaged at  work  in  the  upper  part  of  the  building, 
he  heard  a  noise  behind  him,  and  looking  through 
a  narrow  lattice,  saw  a  female  countenance :  but 
what  was  his  amazement,  when  he  recognised 
the  face  of  Mosco!  He  tremblingly  accosted 
her.  They  looked  at  one  another  in  speechless 


177 

delight;  and  after  learning  from  her  lips  the 
sufferings  which  she  had  endured,  he  hastily 
told  her  not  to  despair,  promising  that  he  would 
deliver  her  from  thraldom,  during  the  very  next  ab- 
sence of  the  Turks.  But  what  an  age  every  mo- 
ment appeared,  till  the  anticipated  period  ar- 
rived !  The  following  day,  he  was  ordered,  on 
pain  of  death,  to  look  well  to  his  duty  until 
the  return  of  his  masters.  He  waited  a  full  hour 
after  their  departure ;  and  when  all  was  quiet,  he 
stole  into  the  ammunition  room,  and  arming  him- 
self with  every  necessary  defence,  he  hastened 
immediately  to  the  apartment  of  his  mistress. 
It  was  the  work  of  a  moment  to  force  the  door, 
and  in  an  instant  they  were  descending  the  steps 
of  the  monastery.  The  Turks  little  suspected 
their  prisoner's  design.  They  were  dreaming 
of  the  war,  at  the  entrance  of  the  gate,  and 
altogether  unprepared  for  the  vigilant  Demetrius. 
They  passed  the  sleeping  sentries,  who  never  lis- 
tened to  their  footsteps ;  and  long  before  the  rest 
of  the  party  were  apprized  of  their  escape,  they 
had  considerably  advanced  towards  the  plains  of 
Eleusis. 

iYIosco  informed  Demetrius  that  the  Turks  had 
No.  XII.— s  / 


inhumanly  butchered  her  parents,  and  that  she 
had  been  brought  to  the  monastery  by  one  of 
the  chiefs,  who  had  persuaded  her  in  vain  to  be 
his  mistress.  They  travelled  silently  onward, 
fearful  of  being  overheard,  being  too  much  oc- 
cupied by  their  own  safety  to  attend  to  any  other 
concern.  Having  left  the  plain  of  Athens  far 
behind,  and  wound  round  the  hill  of  Corydalus, 
they  listened  to  the  trampling  of  horses  from 
the  rear.  They  quickened  their  pace,  and 
were  entering  beneath  the  shadowy  cliffs  of  the 
seashore,  when  they  saw  their  Turkish  tyrants 
gaining  fast  upon  them ;  but  by  a  dexterous  move- 
ment, the  lovers  hid  themselves  into  a  hollow  cleft, 
dark  with  mountain  oak  and  pine,  and  through 
crevices  of  the  rocks,  they  perceived  them  winding 
down  the  hill,  and  moving  off  by  a  different  road 
from  that  which  Demetrius  meant  to  take,  tt 
was  his  intention  to  go  directly  to  his  father's, 
and  place  Mosco  under  the  charge  of  his  sisters, 
as  he  might  be  desirous  once  more  of  taking  an 
active  part  in  the  war.  In  a  short  time  he  arrived 
at  the  paternal  mansion,  which  was  delightfully 
situated  at  the  head  of  the  Eleusinean  gulf,  beyond 
which  was  an  arid  level,  relieved  only  by  a  few 
Balarian  oaks  and  Olive  trees,  and  Mount  Parne? 


179 

m  the  perspective,  adorned  by  its  tbrest  of 
firs.  The  family  received  them  with  every  de- 
monstration of  joy.  The  war  had  swept  past 
it  without  the  infliction  of  worse  misfortunes 
than  occasional  depredations  upon  its  property  ; 
and  in  the  society  of  Demetrius's  sisters  and  mo- 
ther, Mosco  felt  herself  at  home. 

But  Demetrius  felt  that  it  was  his  duty  to  as- 
sert the  injured  cause  of  his  country,  and  ac- 
cordingly soon  after  joined  the  Grecian  army. 
Having  crossed  Phocis  and  Boeotia  with  30,000 
men,  Omer  Vrioni  attacked  the  city  of  Corinth, 
which,  after  a  feeble  resistance,  surrendered  to 
his  arms,  leaving  him  in  possession  of  its  for- 
tresses, and  the  command  of  the  Argolic  plain. 
Here  Demetrius  was  stationed;  and  while  va- 
liantly defending  the  garrison,  he  was  taken 
prisoner  with  a  number  of  his  own  troops ;  and 
as  the  Turkish  forces  were  destined  for  Napoli. 
was  sent  with  the  prisoners  in  a  vessel  sail- 
ing to  the  Dardanelles  for  a  fresh  supply  of  pro- 
visions for  the  army.  He  was  now  upon  the 
wide  ocean ;  and  as  the  mountains  and  spires  of 
Corinth  diminished  to  a  single  point,  he  began  to 
feel  himself  in  the  power  of  the  Turks,  and 


180 

awake  to  the  wretchedness  of  his  situation.  He 
could  not  shed  a  tear  for  himself:  the  afflicted 
thousands  of  Greece — the  condition  of  his  own 
family,  and  the  orphaned  Mosco,  called  forth  all 
his  sympathy;  and  the  thought  that  he  might 
never  see  them  more  drove  him  almost  to  despair. 
After  a  long  and  tedious  journey,  he  arrived 
at  Constantinople.  Though  a  miserable  slave, 
he  could  not  but  admire  the  innumerable  roofs, 
balconies,  and  domes,  swelling  above  each  other 
like  amphitheatres ;  together  with  the  splendid 
seraglios,  monasteries,  and  churches,  which  adorn- 
ed this  noblest  of  Asiatic  cities.  But  though  he 
found  here  a  thousand  objects  of  admiration,  he 
felt  but  little  interest  in  the  scene, being  altogether 
absorbed  in  his  troubles,  and  the  slavery  he  was 
to  undergo.  Oh,  how  does  the  most  beautiful 
object  become  changed,  to  the  bosom  that  is 
overcharged  with  sorrow  !  The  medium  through 
which  the  mind  views  the  object,  has  been 
distorted  and  dim,  and  how  should  it  other- 
wise than  disregard  the  most  glorious  of  Hea- 
ven's gifts  ?  Blest  with  the  society  of  his  Mosco, 
and  undisturbed  by  the  calamities  which  preyed 
upon  his  country,  Demetrius  would  have  enjoyed 
the  scene  almost  as  the  effect  of  enchantment. 


181 

and  been  excited  to  gaze  at  those  innumerable 
curiosities  which  are  the  pride  and  the  ornament 
of  Turkey. 

The  city  at  this  time  was  uncommonly  throng- 
ed, not  only  by  the  vast  influx  of  foreigners,  com- 
bined with  the  Turkish  interest,  but  by  crowds 
of  native  Turks,  who  were  drawn  together  to 
learn  the  particulars  of  the  war;  and  to  be- 
hold and  bid  upon  the  Greek  captives,  who 
were  to  be  exposed  for  sale  at  their  markets. 
An  important  sale  had  been  several  days  an- 
nounced, and  Demetrius  was  among  its  unfor- 
tunate victims.  He  had  no  doubt  of  falling 
into  the  possession  of  some  remorseless  Turk, 
who,  if  he  did  not  take  his  life,  would  render  it 
a  burden.  He  began  to  grow  weary  of  his  ex- 
istence ;  and  since  he  had  lost  all  worth  living 
for,  he  became  indifferent  to  every  thing.  It  is 
cowardly,  nay,  criminal,  to  abandon  our  trust  in 
an  overruling  Power ;  and  because  we  cannot 
devise  means  of  escape,  to  despair  of  deliverance 
from  our  trials.  But  poor  human  nature  requires 
continual  incentives  to  sustain  a  long  series  of 
troubles ;  and  without  the  especial  interference 


182 

of  Heaven,  we  should  often  sink  under  their 
pressure. 

Though  the  Greeks  were  generally  successful 
in  their  contests  with  the  Turks,  they  could  not 
escape  depredations  on  the  seacoasts,  from  which 
frequently  many  families,  and  much  property 
were  carried  away  in  their  vessels.  Greek  prison- 
ers were  constantly  arriving  at  the  various  de- 
pots of  Turkey,  and  particularly  at  the  capital, 
where  slaves  are  so  exceedingly  valued.  When 
the  expected  day  arrived,  the  slave-market  was 
crowded  with  a  multitude  of  both  sexes,  sitting 
in  a  melancholy  posture,  and  waiting  for  the  ex- 
amination of  the  inquisitive  purchasers,  who 
were  beginning  to  single  out  their  victims.  At 
these  inhuman  marts,  the  unfortunate  beings  are 
narrowly  inspected ; — they  to  whom  Nature  has 
been  parsimonious  of  her  charms,  are  devoted  to 
the  meanest  and  most  servile  employments: 
while  those  to  whom  she  has  been  most  liberal, 
partake  of  the  highest  favours  and  esteem  of  their 
masters;  and  frequently,  by  changing  their  re- 
ligion, rise  to  the  same  privileges  and  rank.  The 
Grecian  women  are  especial  objects  of  desire  ; 
and  those  uncommonly  beautiful,  repeatedly 


183 

marry  their  purchasers ;  so  that  their  situ- 
ation is  by  no  means  materially  injured.  Deme- 
trius was  purchased  by  a  Pasha  of  high  rank ; 
and  while  he  was  waiting  to  accompany  his  mas- 
ter, he  heard  his  name  called  upon  by  a  fe- 
male voice,  and  looking  among  the  crowd,  he 
saw  a  woman  whose  face  was  partly  concealed 
by  a  veil,  but  it  was  too  familiar  to  escape  imme- 
diate recognition,  for  it  was  no  less  than  his  be- 
loved Mosco's.  But  how  should  she  have  come 
there?  and  where  could  be  his  parents  and  sis- 
ters? He  gazed  eagerly  about  the  multitude, 
but  they  were  not  to  be  seen ;  and  it  was  mani- 
fest that  they  must  have  perished  like  the  pa- 
rents of  his  Mosco.  Demetrius  gazed  upon  her 
with  the  madness  of  despair,  but  her  pensive 
black  eyes  had  lost  their  lustre :  her  cheeks  had 
faded  away  like  a  withered  lily,  and  the  big  tear, 
as  it  started  from  her  eyelids,  seemed  to  burn  up 
and  wear  away  her  spirits.  He  rushed  to  the 
dear  object,  and  clasped  her  in  his  embrace  :  but 
she  could  not  speak  ;  and  in  a  few  moments  they 
were  parted  by  an  officious  Turk,  who,  having 
paid  an  extraordinary  price  for  the  fair  slave,  was 
about  carrying  her  away.  The  tears  of  Mosco, 
and  the  resistance  of  Demetrius,  availed  them 


*s 

Y/ 

£ 


not.  He  saw  her  torn  from  him,  to  become  the 
property  of  a  Mahometan;  but  there  was  no 
other  remedy  but  to  yield.  He  followed  his 
master,  who  was  too  much  occupied  by  his  own 
cares  to  regard  the  sufferings  of  his  slave.  He 
watched  his  beloved  girl  till  she  became  lost 
in  the  crowd,  and  he  saw  no  more  than  the  waving 
of  her  hand.  Demetrius  possesed  a  mind  of 
more  than  ordinary  cultivation ;  and  to  this  was 
added  a  fine  figure,  by  no  means  devoid  of  dig- 
nity and  grace.  He  was  accordingly  employed 
by  the  Turk,  in  the  honourable  task  of  private 
secretary,  and  was  promised  a  considerable  rank 
in  the  army,  provided  he  would  abjure  his  re- 
ligion. But  Demetrius  had  too  much  prudence 
to  reject  the  offer  of  his  proud  lord ;  and  hoping 
to  procure  his  freedom,  with  that  of  his  beloved 
Mosco,  he  deceived  him  into  a  hope  of  com- 
pliance, in  order  to  mature  plans  for  the  pro- 
motion of  her  liberty.  He  might  have  frequently 
escaped;  as  he  enjoyed  such  unlimited  confidence, 
that  he  was  allowed  to  ramble  through  the  city, 
and  feast  his  eyes  upon  the  splendid  monuments 
of  Asiatic  pride.  But  though  he  watched  every 
countenance  from  the  windows  and  terraces,  he 
never  discovered  the  object  of  his  search ;  and 


000  045  592     3 


